


Left Behind

by InhoePublishing



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InhoePublishing/pseuds/InhoePublishing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Kirk's first landing party assignment turns anything but routine, he find himself injured and alone .. and in the middle of a planet's civil war. With Enterprise out of reach, it's up to Spock to keep Kirk alive. As help arrives, Kirk is left needing to solve a mystery and to find the last of his men now left behind.</p>
<p>Spock looked down at Kirk, whose face was an unhealthy white-gray, lips bloodless and slightly parted with faint, rapid breaths. It unsettled Spock to see the normally animated features become lax as the life-force within him waned. McCoy was right; they were running out of time. He estimated Kirk had little more than an hour or two before blood loss and shock would be irreversible. </p>
<p>“For Christ’s sake, Spock, make a decision,” McCoy commanded. “Jim’s dying.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Kirk slammed into the stone wall. His left shoulder absorbed most of the impact, but the jarring sent a wave of agony through his torn side. His breath hissed out between his gritted teeth. _Shit!_ He tried to catch his breath, pressing a hand to his bloody side as his legs buckled and he slowly collapsed onto his knees. The hollow sound of photons filled the air and he could feel the ground tremble as the relentless barrage continued. The artillery pattern was brilliantly laid out to disorient and scatter the enemy. It had worked only too well on them.

“We gotta move, Captain,” Lt. Weston said. His round face was flushed and covered with sweat, his hair plastered to his head. Eyes wide with concern, he was breathing rapidly as he crouched next to Kirk behind the safety of the wall. “We’re in the cross-fire, sir.”

Kirk nodded, trying to catch his own breath. The thin atmosphere of the planet made it impossible. “I’m aware of that, Lieutenant.”

The hole in his side was evidence enough that they’d stepped into the wrong field while investigating the planet. Before Kirk knew it, they were standing in the middle of a battlefield as two sides appeared out of nowhere and converged in a fury of fire. Their remote scanners had missed the obvious gathering of troops. The landing party, dressed in native garb for concealment, had scattered under the artillery, but not before a single shot struck Kirk, tearing through his left side. He hadn’t even noticed he was shot until he was well away from the landing party and his legs had buckled under the strain.

Weston flipped open his communicator. “Weston to _Enterprise_.”

Static filled the air.

He frantically adjusted the settings. “Weston to _Enterprise_. Emergency beam out! _Enterprise!_ ”

“The photons are interfering,” Kirk said tightly. The pain in his side had not lessened, nor had the blood slowed. If anything, it had gotten worse. He felt it seeping between his fingers and running down his back, soaking into the thin fabric of the native attire. The photon had gone all the way through him, burning into his flesh. He didn’t know what kind of damage it had done and he didn’t have time to worry about it. They had to get out of here fast. Quickly assessing the landscape, he jerked his head in a direction behind him. “We have to get behind the lines and rendezvous with the rest of the landing party.”

Two months into his captaincy and this was the first exploratory assignment Pike had granted him. The planet was neutral and not a member of the Federation, but Starfleet Intelligence had suspected that someone was interfering in the planet’s sociological development.

_“This is a sovereign planet. Observe, Jim,” Pike said sternly. “Investigate. **Don’t** get involved.”_

He couldn’t risk making contact with the natives and violating the Prime Directive, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be a sitting target. His orders didn’t say anything about that.

“How, sir?” Weston asked. “We don’t even know where the rest of the landing party is.”

Spock, Bini and Cooper had run to the west where there was no fighting, while Kirk and Weston had ended up headed south in an effort to avoid the artillery. But the battle turned rapidly and, instead of running behind the fighting as Kirk had intended, they found themselves trapped in the middle of the warring parties. “Head west. If we get split up, keep moving west.” He shivered suddenly as a spasm of white-hot pain tore through his side. He looked Weston directly in the eyes. “Don’t let the natives make contact with you, even if you have to stay put.”

“Yes, sir.”

With an effort, he pushed himself to his feet and immediately bent at the waist as the muscles around his ribs and abdomen stretched with the movement. It fired up his nerves and he could only manage a hunched pose. Sweat rolled down his face and stung his eyes. He pressed his hand more firmly into his bloody side as if the pressure would somehow relieve the agony or staunch the flow of blood. It did neither. He swayed and Weston’s hand latched onto his bicep with an iron grip. He didn’t have time to think about the pain or debate the merits of his decision. A sudden blast from a photon struck the wall, sending a spray of stones into the air. In an instant, they were moving.

Each step over the rocky, grass-covered ground jarred a new wave of agony through him, but he forced his legs to keep moving, wheezing out breaths in rapid succession. The heat was oppressive, the air thin and the sounds of battle deafening as the artillery hit its marks. He felt the sear of a phaser blast skim his right shoulder, igniting his nerves on fire. He clenched his jaw, refusing the pain. The odor of burnt flesh barely registered as he kept his breakneck pace. Just ahead was the cover of trees and the promise of reprieve. He was almost there, he told himself, pushing his body and ignoring the pain.

He was almost to the trees when something slammed into him. He went down hard.

* * *

Pike was going to kill him.

It was Kirk’s first coherent thought as he returned to consciousness. The second was that he was on his back in the middle of a battle, wounded and alone. Struggling to open his eyes and focus, he squirmed in a futile effort to ease the pain in his side and he tried to get an arm beneath him for leverage. If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to do it lying down.

“Do not move.”

The command penetrated his fuzzy thoughts as a hand pressed to his chest, holding him down. Fuck! He struck at the hand that held him in place, only to have his captured and held in a vice-like grip.

“Captain. You must lie still.”

He was bringing his leg up to deliver a kick when the word registered in his brain: Captain. A shudder tore through him and he suppressed a moan. He stopped struggling, blinking to clear his vision. “Spock?”

“Yes, Captain. You must lie still. You have been injured.”

His head dropped back onto the ground with a thud and he took a few moments to breathe. His side throbbed, setting every nerve in his middle on fire. Gritting his teeth, he stifled a groan and concentrated on his surroundings. His vision slowly came into focus and he saw the narrow features of the Vulcan hovering over him. “Where are we?”

“Out of the line of fire.”

His head pounded and he felt himself shaking uncontrollably. The burning pain in his side spread out from beneath his ribs into his belly, stretching up to his solar plexus. Each breath caught in his chest and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push down the pain. When he opened his eyes again, his thoughts were clearer. They were in the forest, under a canopy of leaves. The ground was damp and slightly cool beneath him and the earthy aromas seemed to help clear his mind. He rolled his head to the left. The terrain spun dizzily around him.

“Where’s Weston?”

“I do not know. You were alone when I found you.” Spock’s eyebrows were drawn together as he stared at Kirk. Despite the dark smudges staining the pale features, the Vulcan looked annoyingly well kept. And still holding Kirk’s hand.

“You can let go of my hand now,” he said weakly.

Spock released his grip and straightened his spine. His expression, as always, was disciplined and unrevealing. “I was concerned you would aggravate your injury.”

“Noted.” He dragged his hand to his side, feeling a thick pad of fabric covering his middle and frowned.

“I dressed the wound as supplies allowed,” Spock said, staring at him with an unreadable expression. “You have lost a significant amount of blood.”

Bini had the medical kit, which meant Bini was lost, as well. What he wouldn’t give for a hypo right now. He felt exhaustion weigh on him. “Where’s the rest of the landing party?”

“Unknown. We were separated under a concentrated artillery pattern.”

Jesus, that was just fucking great. They were supposed to observe and report and now three of his landing party members were somewhere in the middle of a sovereign planet’s battle, and he was lying there with a damn hole in his side. Pike was definitely going to kill him. “We have to find them.”

Both of Spock’s eyebrows climbed beneath the perfectly trimmed bangs.

“We can do nothing at the moment, Captain. Communications are down. We will have to wait another one point six hours for _Enterprise_ to beam us out.”

Protocol. He’d balked at Spock’s insistence on a pre-arranged beam out if the landing party did not make contact in four hours, wanting the freedom to follow whatever trail he deemed necessary, to observe the native population. But Spock remained immovable in his position and Kirk had finally relented, irritated that his first officer didn’t trust his judgment. Sometimes he still felt like that third year cadet who stood before the Academy Board, defending his actions.

He lifted his head and tried to rise to his elbows to get a better view of their surroundings, but agony tore through his entire left side. A strangled cry escaped him and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing back onto the ground even as Spock placed a hand on his shoulder to hold him place. “Fuck.”

“Please lay still, Captain. We must remain unseen to the natives.”

Mission first. The damn regs again.

As he tried to even out his respirations and get control of the pain, he realized something had changed. In the distance he still heard the fire of photons, but the frequency had lessoned. The battle was ending or turning, one side driving into enemy territory. “They’re moving,” he gasped.

“Yes.”

His heart pounded rapidly, thundering in his chest and sending a constant wave of pain through him. He turned his head in the direction of the battle. From where he lay, he saw little but a cloud of smoke hanging thinly over the field. “How long?”

“Until we can beam up to the ship?”

“No.” He bit down as another wave of pain dug into his abdomen. “Since … since the battle began?” He pressed his hand to the wound, trying to ease the gnawing.

Spock looked down at him. “Two point three hours.”

Not long as far as battles were concerned, but it was moving away from them, which was a good thing. If the planet inhabitants followed normal battle practices, medics wouldn’t come onto the field until the artillery cleared. He closed his eyes as dizziness disoriented his vision. “How many … fighters?”

“I estimate over a thousand.”

“Ground troops,” he said breathlessly and opened his eyes. “Long-range artillery.”

“Yes.” For the first time, Spock looked uncertain. “Unless either side changes defensive postures, we will be safe here.”

He shivered and stifled another moan. “No such thing as safe in a battle, Spock.” His words were slurred. “Doesn’t make sense.” At Spock’s inquisitive expression, he added, “Battles are about territory. Moved in a … parallel line.”

“You believe they are maneuvering into a more favorable position.”

“Leapfrogging.” That would put his men at greater risk. If his assessment was correct, another offensive would be launched from a different location, driving the opposing side into an inescapable position. “That’s what I’d do,” he mumbled, his eyes drifting shut.

A sudden, sharp pain in his side caused him to cry out. Spock’s hand pressed into Jim’s bloody side where Jim’s hand had slipped from its hold. The pressure sent another onslaught of fiery pain through his side and hip.

“Fuck, Spock” he ground out, arching slightly as if to dislodge the Vulcan’s hand as his fingers dug into the soft soil. The heel of Spock’s hand pressed determinedly into the softness of his side. He gasped through the pain, bending his right leg for leverage and digging his heel into the ground.

“We must keep adequate pressure to staunch the blood loss.”

Christ! As his body adjusted to the new pressure, the pain lessened slightly and he found himself taking short breaths to avoid disturbing the temporary lull in the agony. He shivered, blinking several times to clear his vision. “How bad?”

“You have lost considerable blood,” Spock said evenly.

“You said that already,” he breathed out. His head pounded.

Without missing a beat, Spock continued. “I am unable to determine organ damage without a tricorder. However, a spleen rupture is most likely given the location and severity of the photon blast and the amount of blood lost.”

Cold settled in on him as he stared at Spock. “Have you been taking … tips … on bedside manners from Bones?”

“I have not.” Confusion slipped onto the otherwise unreadable features.

“Probably just as well,” he said weakly with a small smile. His gaze wandered again to the battlefield. “Hell of a debut for my first set down.”

“You could not have foreseen these events,” Spock said thoughtfully. “The probes did not register a congregation of the planet’s natives prior to your approving the landing site.”

“Didn’t register…photons, either.” He shivered. “We’ve gotta raise … _Enterprise …_ and find the rest of the … the landing party.”

“At the moment, we can do neither.”

He tried to shift, but Spock’s hand on his side prevented him, so he let his body still and took shallow breaths, trying not to increase his pain.

“We can only wait, Captain.” He looked down with hooded eyes. “You should rest.”

At the Academy, he had taken many classes on tactical maneuvers, battle focus training and physics, as well as diplomacy and negotiations. But it was the behavior science and leadership courses he excelled at. ‘A natural leader’ one of his instructors had said on his evaluation. ‘But reckless and impetuous in his decision making.’

Pike had counseled him that a commanding officer’s position was not on the line of battle, but behind it, driving the strategy.

“You continually put yourself in the line of fire, Cadet,” Pike had said. “A dead captain isn’t of any use to anyone.”

But he didn’t know how to be anything else. His impetuous decision-making had saved Earth and Pike. Had it now gotten them stranded? Had it killed his men?

 

He drifted in and out, the pain constant and draining. He tried to keep still. Occasionally, he felt Spock’s hand on his chest – a silent command – as he moved restlessly against the pain. The heat seemed to rescind as a chill seeped into him. This, too, seemed distant and removed as he drew one breath and then another in a foggy limbo that eluded all boundaries. Each time he surfaced from the greyness, no matter how briefly, he’d instinctively listen, hoping for the familiar beep of the biobed’s monitor telling him he was on _Enterprise_. But all he heard was the uneven sounds of his breathing and faint resonance of battle. Vaguely, he felt Spock’s hand still pressed firmly into his bloody side and knew he was not alone.

“Spock to _Enterprise._ ”

A blast of static filled the air as he struggled to rouse from the shadows.

“Spock to _Enterprise_.”

“Enterprise, Uhura here. Are you all right? We lost communication with you.”

“Have the transporter lock onto our coordinates, Lieutenant. We need an immediate beam out.”

Silence. Spock looked down at Jim with worry in his eyes.

“Scott here, sir.” The thick Scottish accent came through surprisingly clear. “We canna get a lock on you. There’s too much interference. We had ta jury-rig communication just ta get this connection and I don’t know how long it’ll last. Is the captain with you?”

“I’m here, Scotty,” Jim said weakly. “What’s causing…interference?”

 “We’re not sure, but it’s transient. Started right after you beamed down.”

“Photons,” Kirk said faintly. His head began to pound again.

“More than likely.” Spock agreed. “Mr. Scott, are you able to accurately monitor the transporter interference?”

“I can tell if you’re clear for transporter function, if that’s what you mean. What’s your situation?”

Spock mouth tightened. “The Captain is injured and in need of immediate medical attention. We’ve lost contact with the rest of the landing party.”

“Can ya move locations? We might be able to find a clear area for transportation.”

Spock’s hand was still pressed firmly into Kirk’s side. “Negative. We must wait for transportation.”

“We’ll send down a shuttle and –”

“No,” Kirk said with as much energy as he could muster. Talking tightened the muscles in his side, spreading a burning ache into him. “Can’t risk it.”

“We can put it out of sight, sir. Send in a recon.”

He shook his head, feeling another wave of dizziness distort his vision.

“There is too much risk involved, Mr. Scott,” Spock said. “We cannot allow the indigenous species to see us. We will have to remain where we are until the transporters are working.”

Voices speaking over one another filtered through the communicator. They were muffled, but the anger and anxiety were evident in the tones. Kirk frowned as he tried to make out the voices. It sounded chaotic, the crew moving from business as usual to crisis. He was about to call for Scotty, when a voice came through.

“Spock, McCoy here. What’s Jim’s condition?”

“The Captain was shot with a level 4 photon. Entrance wound two centimeters below his left ribs. Another grazed his right shoulder, but appears superficial. He has lost considerable blood, but is conscious and coherent.”

Spock, always so efficient. He sounded like he was reading a report instead of relaying his captain’s injuries.

McCoy swore. “Is it through and through?”

“Yes. I am applying pressure in an attempt to slow the bleeding, however it is having little effect. I suspect internal bleeding.”

“What are his vitals?”

“Lt Bini has the medical kit and I do not know her location.”

“You can take a pulse, can’t you?” McCoy’s words were sharp.

“Stop hollering … at Spock, Bones,” Kirk said faintly. Another shiver swept through him.

“Jim.” McCoy’s tone softened. “How are you feeling? Are you dizzy? Short of breath?”

“Yes.”

“To which one?” he asked shortly.

“All them.” Kirk took another shallow breath. “But I’m okay.” His vision began to dim. “Spock’s ‘xaggerating.”

“Like hell he is. You’ve got a damn hole in your side.”

“It’s a little hole.” He could hear that his words were slurring.

“Spock, get me his pulse and respirations.”

Spock rested his long fingers along the side of Kirk’s neck for a few seconds, and then moved to lay his hand on Kirk’s chest. All the while, Kirk watched him. He seemed stoic, unresponsive, and yet oddly attentive and somehow concerned. He doesn’t like this. Too emotional. Too intimate. Was he like this with Pike? All those years of service together, they must have developed some kind of a relationship. Understood each other’s boundaries, patterns? No. Pike wouldn’t have gotten himself shot and stranded.

“Pulse is rapid and difficult to ascertain. Respirations are 30.”

“Are they shallow?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“He’s going into shock. You have to keep him warm. Do you have any water to give him?”

“None, doctor.”

A soft curse. “Keep him still. Any movement can start him bleeding more badly.”

“We’re not going … anywhere, Bones.”

“Jim—”

“’sokay.” His words were getting more slurred, which made it difficult to sell his ‘I’m fine, really’ act, but he heard the worry in Bones’ voice and didn’t want his friend to know how bad it was. “I’m not … done … yet.”

“You better not be,” McCoy said. His words were harsh, but his tone was gentle. “You’re the first captain under my care. Think of my reputation if you die.”

Kirk smiled. His vision blurred. “You’ll survive.” His words were no more than a whisper.

“So will you, you idiot.” McCoy’s words were thick with emotion.

“Miss your … entertainment,” he said faintly, then immediately regretted it.

“Looks like you did just fine without me,” McCoy said heavily.

It was the conversation they had just had this morning…

 

_“Bones, you need to get some away mission time logged in,” Kirk said. “You can’t limit yourself to the ship.”_

_They were walking on Deck 4, McCoy having raced to get Kirk’s attention between appointments. McCoy had just gotten word this morning that Kirk wanted him in the landing party. He shot Kirk a scowl as they kept up their pace._

_“This is the first mission where **you’re** allowed off ship, Jim. Don’t confuse your enthusiasm with mine. Some of us like the order and routine of the ship.”_

_“You hate space,” Kirk said incredulously. They stopped at the turbo lift. “It’ll be good for you, Bones. Get off the ship, stretch your legs. Aren’t you the one that always says a doctor needs to be where the action is?”_

_“Like hell. And what action? You’re going down to observe for a few hours. You won’t be in contact with any inhabitants. You don’t need a CMO there waiting to treat eye-strain due to boredom.”_

_The lift opened and they stepped into the lift as the doors hissed shut behind them._

_“That’s clever, Bones,” Kirk said with a grin._

_“Damn it, Jim, I’ve got all of security to evaluate and Starfleet insists they be in space during evaluation. This tour is only two weeks and we’ll be back on Earth. I don’t have time to entertain you on a landing party.”_

_Kirk turned to him. He knew his friend hated away missions and the prospect of exploring unknown planets. As a physician, Bones always saw the worse-case scenario, the hidden dangers of prolonged space-travel or exposure to unknown bacteria or viral infections. But the truth was, Kirk liked having Bones with him and this was his first away mission. He wanted to share it with his friend. “Maybe I like having you around.”_

_“You like an audience,” McCoy said sourly. “Take Spock with you. He’s more tolerant of your aggrandizing.”_

_That wasn’t true. Since becoming first officer, Spock seemed to challenge Kirk at every turn. And worse than that, Kirk felt as if Spock were evaluating him instead of the other way around._

_The lift stopped and Kirk turned to McCoy. “Okay. But find me someone from medical with a good sense of humor, because I’m going to miss that about you.”_

 

Kirk wanted to tell McCoy that he wished it were him here instead of Spock, that he should have insisted McCoy come down, but he didn’t have the strength, and even if he did, he couldn’t say that in front of Spock. Vulcan or not, Kirk was trying to establish some type of working relationship with his first officer that didn’t consist of a debate.

“Scotty … get … transporters working.” Kirk shivered. His eyes began to close as exhaustion dragged on him. “Locate … members of the landing party. I … I don’t like them scattered … like this.”

“Aye, sir.”

Spock said, “Keep this communication open. We will make contact every thirty minutes.”

“I want vitals every thirty minutes,” McCoy demanded. “Let me know if anything changes.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And **don’t** move him.”

“I will do my best.”

“Jim, don’t do anything stupid down there.”

Kirk smiled weakly at the idea. He’d already gotten himself shot and stranded. Death or capture was the only other option, and he’d be damned if he was going to add violating the Prime Directive to the list of disasters that made up this mission. He’d end his captaincy in the line of duty on a planet that didn’t even have a real name. It wouldn’t even be a footnote in the very short file of his career. He closed his eyes. The pain in his side was throbbing now with each beat of his heart and talking tired him.

“Jim?” McCoy said.

I hear you. Stop worrying.

“We will contact you in thirty minutes. Spock out.”

For a long time, the two of them sat in silence, listening to the fading artillery. They had stepped into the middle of a civil war on a sovereign planet that had shown no prior signs of disputes and that worried Kirk. His orders were to observe, but Starfleet obviously thought that there was interference from somewhere. And whoever they were, they had to have provided the native species with the photons.

“Soldiers for hire.”

“Captain?” Spock’s voice was thick with worry.

He swallowed past the dryness in his throat. My God he was thirsty. “Someone’s funding ‘s war.”

“The thought had occurred to me, as well. Photons are beyond the scope of the inhabitants industry.”

Spock’s fingers kept their steady pressure on his side, anchoring him to the soft ground. “Who?”

“I do not have sufficient data to answer that question. I could only speculate.”

Kirk shivered as a wave of coolness swept over him. Late afternoon and the sun was finally making its way across the sky. It was hours yet to sundown, when the temperatures would drop and the inhabitants would begin to clear the battlefield.

“This isn’t going to end well.” And at Spock’s inquiring gaze added, “Civil war … interference … us stuck in the middle … no intel, no evidence … no transportation.” His breathing had increased to shallow, rapid inhalations, and he took a moment to catch his breath. “It’s not looking good.”

Spock raised a single eyebrow. “I thought you did not believe in no-win scenarios.”

“I didn’t say we weren’t going to win. I said it wasn’t going to end well.”

 


	2. Chapter Two

Spock lightly pressed his fingers to Kirk’s carotid artery and counted the faint throbbing of his pulse. It was an unnecessary action. The long column of Kirk’s neck was clearly exposed and he could easily see the pulse moving beneath the pale flesh, but touching the cooler than Vulcan flesh gave him an illogical comfort. Kirk had not moved in over fourteen minutes, laying unnaturally still. In the past six months Spock had served as First Officer to Kirk, he had observed the young captain rarely remained motionless for long. Even standing at attention in front of Admiral Pike, Kirk could only hold the pose for two minutes before shifting his muscles. Discipline was not a strong suite of Kirk’s, but the Admiral seemed to indulge him more than Spock thought appropriate.

He removed his hand from Kirk’s neck and reached for his communicator, keeping his other hand firmly pressed to Kirk’s bleeding side. “Spock to _Enterprise_.”

Silence.

He waited for thirty seconds and tried again, only to be met with silence once more. The last several check-ins had gone without incident. Enterprise had retrieved Bini and Cooper from the landing party and they were safely onboard. The transportation field was minimizing with the decrease of the barrage of photons and Spock could only surmise that they were getting closer to beaming up, which was well advised because Kirk’s vitals had continued to worsen.

Resting back on his heels, he took a moment to close his eyes and center himself. With Kirk unconscious, the flood of emotions radiating from him had gratefully stopped. Vulcans were touch telepaths, but under extreme duress, human emotions could be felt by Vulcans and other equally sensitive beings. Through his years on Earth, Spock had learned to shield human emotions with little effort, but being this close to Kirk – wounded and in pain – had put a great deal of stress on his ability to maintain a safe distance.

Kirk moved slightly beneath him and he was forced to reposition his hand to keep pressure on the open wound. Blood had dried sticky and thick, sealing his fingers together. He could see the slow spreading pool of dark liquid from beneath Kirk. The soft ground was not eager to absorb it and some of it reached Spock’s knees, staining the rudimentary fabric.

His communicator beeped in his hand and he quickly raised it to his lips. “Spock here.”

“You’re late,” McCoy ground out.

“The signal is unreliable.”

“How’s Jim?”

“His respirations are 34 and shallow, heart rate is 123 and irregular. He is unconscious.”

“Is he still bleeding?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“We can’t wait any longer, Spock,” McCoy said heavily.

It was a conversation they had had earlier, whether to move Kirk or wait for the transporter to capture their signal. Beaming was less risky than moving Kirk, who could tear open whatever slowly bleeding lacerations his organs had sustained and bleed to death in a matter of minutes.  Not to mention any other of a number of injuries that could be incurred due to jostling an injured patient. Spock would have to carry Kirk across an alien and rugged terrain, during which time he would be unable to continue the pressure needed to staunch the flow of blood.

“The odds against the Captain surviving—”

“He’s in hypovolemic shock! His organs are going to start shutting down if they haven’t already. You’re risking brain damage and death keeping him there. You’ve got to get him back to the ship!”

“Doctor—”

“Scott, here, sir. We’ve been monitoring the fields and there may be an opening about 2.3 kilometers to the west at 22.47.00.12.”

Spock surveyed the battlefield, now strangely quiet and cast in a gray shadow. The sun was quickly setting, throwing most of the field into a thick twilight. The woods where he and Kirk rested offered some protection now. They would be able to move further into the trees with little risk to being found, but the risk to Kirk was greater. The human was weak and struggling. Moving him was contraindicated.

“What is Weston’s status?” he asked.

“No word from him. His signal is still dead. He must be in the area of the field that’s blocked.”

Spock looked down at Kirk, whose face was an unhealthy white-gray, lips bloodless and slightly parted with faint, rapid breaths. It unsettled Spock to see the normally animated features become lax as the life-force within him waned. McCoy was right; they were running out of time. He estimated Kirk had little more than an hour or two before blood loss and shock would be irreversible.

“For Christ’s sake, Spock, make a decision,” McCoy commanded. “Jim’s dying.”

For a moment he wondered what Kirk would do. The mercurial mind excelled at strategic thinking. Spock had witnessed that more than once. He had found it difficult to anticipate what his young captain would do, but of this he was certain: When faced with a choice to move into action or wait, Kirk always chose action. “I will move the Captain to the coordinates provided.”

“It’s about goddamn time.”

Kirk’s eyes fluttered opened and Spock could see the dull blue eyes struggle to focus.

“It should take no more than forty-five minutes to reach the destination. I will make contact upon arrival.”

Scott said, “We’ll monitor you. As soon as you and the captain are clear, we’ll beam you up.”

“Understood. Spock out.”

“Arrival?” Kirk’s words were no more than a whisper, discernable only to Vulcan hearing.

“We cannot wait for the transporter to clear. We must move out of the field.” Spock removed his hand from Kirk’s side, feeling the soft flesh tighten with pain. Already Kirk’s features were twisting into an expression of agony. He slid his hand beneath Kirk.

“No,” Kirk said weakly, his hand coming up to grab clumsily at Spock’s shirt. “Too risky.”

“It is a calculated risk.” He lifted Kirk in one smooth motion. Kirk cried out, biting back the remaining scream and sank his teeth into his lips as Spock carefully adjusted his grip. The pain that radiated from Kirk pressed Spock’s limits to shield. He took only a moment to mentally adjust himself before he began walking.

“We’re not … leaving,” Kirk whispered.

Spock continued his pace, using all his skills to keep Kirk steady and avoid jarring that might cause damage.

“That’s … order.” Kirk’s breath came in wheezing gasps. His lips were bloodless and pulled into a tight line while his head hung at an odd angle over Spock’s arm.

“I shall put myself on report upon returning to the ship.”

A groan escaped Kirk as he closed his eyes. “Weston is … is still out … there.”

The ground was uneven and slightly pliable. Spock’s boots sank into the soggy ground, weighted now with an additional burden. “My priority is the captain of the ship and the success of our mission. Lieutenant Weston is expendable.”

“Fuck.”

Kirk’s knuckles skimmed Spock’s jaw. The blow was poorly aimed and lacked any amount of power. It did nothing to slow Spock’s pace.

“I’m ordering you.” The last word barely finished before a coughing fit wracked him. His fingers twisted into his bloody side in an effort, Spock surmised, to ease the pain.

The body in Spock’s arm shuddered and stilled. Kirk’s head dropped back, his mouth parting with shallow gasps. Warm blood soaked into Spock’s shirt. He pressed Kirk closer and quickened his pace.

* * *

 

Kirk feels the movement before the pain. His head is thrown back against an unyielding surface, bobbing slightly with the motion. Rolling his head, he opens his eyes to a gray wall. Spock’s shirt. Shit. He’s being carried. Now he remembers. His right arm hangs down. The weight of it pulls at the tendons in his shoulder, which is, it seems, the only pain he feels.

He lifts his gaze to see the pale features of his first officer. The black eyes are hooded and focused, the mouth relaxed into an indecipherable pose. How long they ~~had~~ have been moving, he doesn’t know.

“Put me down.” He can barely hear his own words. But the Vulcan heard. The black eyes turn to study him briefly.

“That is not advisable.”

He shivers. All the warmth has been leeched out of him, his body wrung out and empty. It takes all his strength to move his arm. It feels as if it’s encased in lead. By the time he manages to pull his arm up, he’s exhausted and his hand falls on his bent belly, fingers weakly gripping his bloody shirt. He can hear ~~his~~ himself wheezing and it makes him wince. It’s so difficult to breathe. Blinking a few times, his vision comes into focus and he sees that they are still in the forest, still moving away from the battlefield and Weston. He raises a shaking hand to push at Spock’s torso. He isn’t certain exactly what his plan is, but he doesn’t want to just allow himself to be carried like a damn Victorian heroine. Spock’s chest is solid and immoveable. His fingers brush the wall of muscles with the strength of an infant. His hand falls back, trembling.

“Yor on re’ort.”

Fuck it. He’s still captain, injured or not. But he hates his weakness even more than he hates Spock’s superior strength. He’s been up against this strength before. Vulcan bone is denser, the muscles solid. Vulcans only look lean and passive, but they are lethal when they want to be. In his current condition, he can do nothing to free himself.

“Understood, Captain.”

Spock’s acquiescence is even more infuriating. He closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing. It takes a moment for him to realize they have stopped. With an effort, he opens his eyes. They are in a very small clearing with long grass that stretched up past Spock’s ankles. The sun is behind the trees and the area is cast in an auburn glow that makes it look ancient and unhospitable. He looks at Spock. “What?”

Spock carefully lowers him to the ground. Kirk’s body is like that of a disjointed puppet. His head tilts as Spock slides his arm from beneath him. Warm fingers cradle the back of his skull and reposition his head with surprising ~~ly~~ gentleness. His legs lay where they fall after Spock’s arms free him. Kirk looks up at Spock and sees the dark stain spilling down the Vulcan’s shirt. He stares at it uncomprehendingly, as if he cannot understand the significance of it.

Spock pulls out his communicator. “Spock to _Enterprise_.”

Static fills the air. So much for plan B. They should have stayed as he had ordered. Moving targets are difficult to track, even with _Enterprise’s_ sophisticated devices. He wheezes in another breath. He is so cold.

Spock keeps the communicator in his left hand, looking out into the terrain. It is silent around them, the trees and fauna absorbing the sounds of their breathing, cradling them in solitude. Spock looks … determined. He has seen that look before, when Spock sat in the command chair as they raced to the Laurentian system and Kirk had pleaded with him to turn the ship around, reminding him he was captain and had a responsibility to rescue Pike and stop Nero. All Kirk’s anger and demands had been met with the same infuriating imperious expression. Had it only been six months ago?

“s’okay,” Kirk said as much for Spock as for himself.

Spock looks down at him and something shifts in the planes of the Vulcan’s face, subtly softening the angles. The pale lips twitch. For a moment, Kirk thinks he might say something, but then his mouth compresses and the narrow eyebrows draw down. He stretches out his arm and rests his hand on Kirk’s chest.

It’s okay. Kirk’s vision narrows, the edges crowded with gray. Nothing hurts, he wants to tell Spock. He tries to stay focused on Spock, to draw strength from him, but he’s losing his vision. His heart pounds rapidly in an irregular beat and he knows he’s run out of time. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to be flat on his back. He doesn’t want to die lying down in a soggy field.

_“I dare you to do better.”_

Fuck you, Pike. He’d been running from that ghost his entire life, thought maybe, this time, he’d outrun it. He tries to raise his head, but he can’t. His body is weighted.

“Lie still.”

He doesn’t want to lie still. He doesn’t want to be silent and unnoticed. He doesn’t want to die on his first away mission as captain of the _Enterprise_ , a mere footnote in Starfleet archives, something for the Academy to study. Like his father. He wants to go back to _Enterprise_. He wants to go home. His thoughts drift and skip like a stone across water. Home.

_“Admiral Pike, I relieve you,” Kirk said, trying to maintain his posture at attention. He can feel the hundreds of eyes focused on him, waiting and watching. Don’t look down. Stay at attention._

_Pike’s mouth curls. “I am relieved. Congratulations – Captain.”_

_Captain._

_“I know your face from history,” Nero sneers. “Captain Kirk was a great man.”_

_Fuck you._

Spock’s face is a few centimeters from his. “You must lie still.”

Spock’s hands are on his shoulders. He can barely breathe, his lungs pulling in thin breaths. It’s too much effort. It’s like trying to breathe through paper. Spock repositions his hands and presses his long fingers into Kirk’s torn side.

“Forgive me.”

Had he cried out? The pain is dull and distant. He doesn’t tell Spock that he can’t feel anything below his waist, which he can’t see anymore. His world has gone dark and cold. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. There is nothing the Vulcan can do. Spock will wait silently, keeping his thoughts to himself – watching and waiting. If Bones were here, his friend would scowl down at him and tell him to keep breathing, press a large, gentle hand to his forehead and swear at him for being so reckless.

Everything is dark. He can’t feel Spock’s hands on him, but he knows the Vulcan has not left. Spock will be sitting with him long after he’s drawn his last breath.

Take me home.

He doesn’t feel the tingle of the transporter. He doesn’t feel anything.

* * *

 

The water beat down on McCoy, hot and steady as steam filled the tiny shower just outside of the surgical suites. His hands rested flat against the smooth wall as his head hung low, letting the water roll off the curve of his back, loosening the tight muscles. He was squandering more than three days ration of water, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to wash away the past four and half hours.

God, he was tired.

A warning buzz sounded, echoing in the narrow stall, alerting him to the water constraints. It was the third such warning. Medical had priority in water consumptions, but it only went so far. He raised his head to the downpour, letting the drops beat on his face, numbing the skin. He imagined the water seeping into the epidermal layers, wearing through the thin wall of muscles and hitting the smooth surface of bone where it would roll off, sterile and unencumbered.

The water stopped abruptly. He took a shuddering breath. Lesson learned: Don’t fuck with the quartermaster. He remained as he was, breathing in the steam and letting the rivulets trickle down his naked body. It took long minutes before he requested the air drier. The pressure of the hot air was a rude awakening to the gentleness of the shower and the soft mist of the steam. All at once he was surrounded by harsh blasts of air that were designed to quickly rid the body of moisture. The air came from everywhere and he was forced to plant his feet shoulder-length apart to keep steady. The air hit between his legs with a gale force. It was like being fucked by the rear engines of a Starfleet cruiser.

With his eyes shut, his mind recalled.

 

_Jim’s body lay unmoving on the narrow gurney as McCoy entered the surgical suite. Fresh whole blood and fluids were being pumped into him as quickly as possible. The room was small and crowded with several nurses. Some would assist during surgery and others were runners. M’Benga stood on one side of the bed, scrubbed and gowned, studying the latest scans. They had rushed Jim in from the transporter room, moving him directly into surgery where they attempted to bring his blood pressure and O2 sats up. McCoy had barely time to look at the hasty scans before he barked a series of orders and rushed to scrub. Stopping the bleeding was a priority, second only to replenishing Jim’s fluids._

_“Have you seen this, Leonard?” M’Benga asked, his eyes on the new scans._

_McCoy craned his neck to see over the big man’s shoulders. M’Benga pointed to Jim’s spine. The damage was obvious. He swore under his breath. The implications of the scans quickly ran through his head, but he refused to linger on them. He couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t think about what would happen if he couldn’t repair the damage, what would become of Jim._

_An alarm sounded softly, drawing his attention. The anesthesiologist immediately compensated and gave McCoy a meaningful look. They didn’t have much time._

_“Let’s get started,” McCoy said, moving to side of the gurney. Jim had been draped and prepped and all he saw was the surgical field in front of him, a lean, pale span of flesh from the pectoral to just above the pelvis. He was grateful for the cover. It helped him to think of the body in front of him as a wound that needed repairing rather than his friend who needed saving._

_The entrance wound of the photon had been cleaned and disinfected. It was ten centimeters in diameter and surrounded by blackened flesh. A thin stream of blood wept from the small opening down Jim’s side and onto the table. McCoy took a deep breath._

_“Scalpel,” he said._

_M’Benga stood opposite him, waiting to assist. His hands were surprisingly steady as he drew the scalpel across the flesh with practiced ease._

_“Retractor.”_

_As the retractor opened the incision, a fountain of blood gushed out of the abdominal cavity. Two sets of nurses’ hands rushed in with suction to clear the surgical field, letting McCoy see the internal organs that needed repair. The nurses were quick and well-trained, but Jim had been bleeding internally for hours and McCoy felt his scrubs become saturated with blood._

_“More suction.”_

_M’Benga pressed a lap sponge into the open cavity and McCoy was forced to wait while the blood was cleared._

_“Four probe,” he ordered. The instrument was slapped into his hand and he inserted it into the new incision, tucking it just near the kidney._

_Another set of alarms sounded and McCoy’s eyes snapped up at the monitor scan. It showed a living organism in the body cavity._

 

The air stopped and the silence surrounded him like a thick blanket, embracing him in stillness. It was tempting to stay isolated in the small stall with the faintly sterile scented mist whirling around him. Water on any Starship went through a rigorous filtration process that gave it a slightly unnatural scent. Most didn’t recognize it, but McCoy was accustomed to Earth water and had grown sensitive to the purified water on _Enterprise_. Despite that, he took a deep breath, letting the mist fill his lungs. After a moment, he stepped out.

The changing room was cool in comparison to the stall. A blast of recirculated air hit him like a winter breeze, waking his senses and pulling him out of his reverie. Suddenly, he was the CMO again and his respite nothing more than a fading dream. Without preamble, he changed into a fresh uniform, favoring the short-sleeved tunic. M’Benga had already showered and left and no doubt returned to medical.

Was it beta shift?

He’d lost track of time. Between the long hours on the bridge monitoring and waiting for Jim’s transport and the hours in surgery, he’d lost all awareness of shifts and assigned duties. All he could think of now was Jim.

He entered the main medical bay, feeling only marginally less fatigued. He put a hand to the back of his neck. The muscles had tightened from hours in surgery and threatened a killer headache if he didn’t take something soon. Out of habit, he scanned the medical bay, taking an inventory of personnel and patients. There was only one occupied bed in the main area. Ensign Petrof from the botany lab lay awake and elevated, recovering from an allergic reaction to an experimental chemical. He hadn’t followed safety protocol and as soon as he was released from Sickbay he’d be in front of Spock. Nurse Trevel stood by the bed talking to him and making notes on his chart.

No crisis.

He turned away from the main area. It wasn’t always possible to quarantine patients for either privacy or medical concerns. In a crisis, such as with their encounter with the Narada, every bed became a critical care unit and privacy was almost nonexistent. But when the medbay was empty, as it was now, McCoy liked to have his critical patients near his office, out of the main flow of traffic and prying eyes. It gave him the option to more closely monitor his critical patients and give them a modicum of privacy.

The ICU, if it could be called that, was really only two beds. The privacy curtain had been partially pulled on the one bed positioned nearest his office. That was where he had ordered Jim settled.

The first thing he saw as he rounded the curtain was M’Benga, standing next to the bed, fingers expertly tapping on a thin PADD. Nurse Phillips was on the opposite side, checking the many IV lines and adjusting the regulator. Her hands flitted nervously and he made a mental note to request a different nurse, one less conscious of Jim’s status as captain. Medical personnel had intimate knowledge of crew, saw them at their worst and still had to eat and socialize with them as if they had never seen them bleeding and in pain. Not everyone could make the transition.

“I was getting worried.” M’Benga said, glancing up at his approach. “Thought we were going to have to send someone in to rescue you.”

McCoy said nothing, his eyes going to Jim. Five units of whole blood in surgery and Jim was finishing up a sixth – all his own blood. McCoy had insisted on keeping an exclusive repository for Jim, a precaution due to Jim’s allergies. Despite the amount of blood, the young man looked impossibly white. He raised his eyes to the monitor. Jim’s vitals were dangerously low and unstable. The photon had made a clean entrance and exit wound. The intensity of the heat had burned the material and flesh instead of driving it into the wound. Jim’s spleen had been lacerated and the slow, internal bleeding had been McCoy’s initial concern. But it wasn’t what had caused the damage.

He stepped up to the bed and Phillips moved away, her nervous fingers brushing down her uniform as if she were preparing for an inspection. A warming blanket covered Jim, but his arms rested on top of the covers to accommodate medical needs. An IV port was inserted into his right hand that lay unmoving at his side. A central line infused the whole blood. He’d remove it when the transfusion was complete. McCoy dropped his gaze to Jim’s waist. A stasis field hummed beneath the blanket, raising the cover just slightly. McCoy’s mouth compressed into a tight line as he recalled the damage to Jim’s internal organs.

Having a patient lie on the ground of an alien planet for hours with an open wound was every physician’s nightmare. Open wounds invited bacteria and infection. That was to be expected in almost any environment. But in Jim’s case, an unknown parasite had found its way into the open wound and began to gorge itself on his organs, slowly doing more damage than the photon.

“His vitals dropped,” M’Benga said.

McCoy nodded.

The PADD in M’Benga’s hand beeped. He looked down at it, scanning the data and frowned.

“You’re not going to like this,” M’Benga said, handing him the PADD.

McCoy looked down at the lab results. The blood test showed that the parasite had not only feasted on Jim’s organs, but had left behind microorganisms that were displaying adhesive proteins.

“Damn it,” he said softly, reading down to see the infection rate.

“Yeah,” M’Benga’s word was drawn out and heavy. “With the damage already done to his organs, it’s going to make treating it difficult.”

The microorganism had a life cycle and was already well-populated in Jim’s blood. Recommended treatment was a synthetic version of quinine, to which Jim was allergic, and even if he wasn’t, McCoy wouldn’t prescribe the treatment to any patient in Jim’s current condition. It would cause more complications than good.

He handed the PADD back to M’Benga. “Have the lab run a full spectrum analysis on this parasite. I want to know everything about the life cycle. And test the rest of the landing party. It’s moving rapidly through Jim, but that may be because of the method of exposure. They may be infected and not know it.”

Which is all he’d need – an infected landing party running around the ship. He took a moment to give Jim one last look and nodded to M’Benga, dismissing him. Phillips moved to stand in the empty spot M’Benga had just occupied. He hated to leave Jim, but he had to write up his surgical notes and a more detailed report for Spock that would include prognosis and treatment plans. And anyway, there was no use standing guard. There wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do for Jim right now.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Spock stood at the foot of Kirk’s bed and watched the slow, unsteady rise of Kirk’s chest. The rhythm was more pronounced and the inhalations easier then when Kirk had laid on the forest floor, gasping for breath. At least the terrible wheezing had ceased, though it was clear to Spock that Kirk was in critical condition. Even without the benefit of having thoroughly read McCoy’s report, he could see the man was struggling to maintain a hold on life. Kirk’s complexion was a startling white, the skin almost translucent and stretched too thinly across the broad jawline, still free of any indication of facial growth. Spock’s gaze travelled to the pale lips parted slightly in deep unconsciousness. He had never seen Kirk this way. It made the unrivalled young captain look breakable.

_“Take care of him, Spock,” Pike said as he wheeled into his office._

_The auditorium had just emptied after the announcement of James Kirk’s unorthodox, yet predictable promotion and the traditional celebration was underway, one Spock was certain Kirk would be participating in long into the morning. When last he saw Kirk, the newly promoted captain was enjoying the attention of several females._

_“From what I have observed, Captain Kirk needs a great deal of tending. More than one person can provide,” Spock said._

_Pike chuckled as he wheeled his chair behind his desk in his new office. “You’re right.”_

_Spock came to stand in front of Pike’s desk, his hands clasped loosely behind him. He assumed the pose without effort or thought. “In any event, I am certain Captain Kirk will choose another first officer. It is his prerogative to assemble his own crew.”_

_“Don’t bet against yourself, Spock.”_

_“Vulcans do not gamble.”_

_Pike looked at him with a steady, serious gaze. “The two of you made an unstoppable team. You complement one another perfectly. Jim needs someone who will challenge him, as much as support his decisions.”_

_“Captain Kirk seemed impervious to both.”_

_Pike’s eyes softened with an emotion Spock could not identify. “He’s not as tough as he looks.”_

 

Spock raised his eyes. The long monitor displayed a series of yellow warning lights spread across the flat panel. For the first time he could recall, he doubted his own actions. He should have foreseen the risk of infection and taken precautions. Had he failed Pike’s directive?

“You shouldn’t be here,” McCoy said. He’d just stepped inside the curtained area, his footfalls heavy with fatigue. “You haven’t cleared medical, yet.”

“The captain is already exposed to the parasite. I am hardly a threat.”

McCoy snorted as he stepped past Spock. “That’s not the point.”

Spock watched as McCoy came to stand by the head of the bed and pull down the thin blanket to reveal Kirk’s bare torso. A sterile bandage covered a large section of Kirk’s left side. Of course the doctor was correct – Spock was out of protocol. His presence at Kirk’s bedside was not necessary, nor was it a function of his role as acting-captain. The medical report had given him the information he needed and he’d already submitted his report to Admiral Pike.

“How is he?”

McCoy tilted his head toward Spock and raised an inquiring brow. “You read my report.”

It was always this way with McCoy, never a straight answer. Spock was not so unfamiliar with human emotions that he could not detect the anger barely concealed in the doctor’s tone. But the reason for the anger perplexed him. It seemed the chief medical officer was in a state of constant irritation, no matter the surrounding circumstances. “I am requesting an update.”

McCoy looked away and fished a small scanner out of his pocket. “He’s critical. He’s not showing improvement.” He paused, the scanner held steady and poised just above Kirk’s navel. “But he’s holding his own.”

“Your prognosis?”

McCoy activated the scanner. “Guarded. His vitals have to level off.” He expelled a strong breath. “That parasite did a number on him. His liver, spleen and kidneys are functioning below seventy-five percent.”

Spock watched as McCoy pressed the scanner to Kirk’s abdomen. The information fed onto the overhead monitor. “And the microorganism? Have you determined its nature?”

McCoy removed the scanner and pocketed it before turning to Spock. “We don’t have much data. All we know is ~~its~~ it’s attaching proteins in the blood, much like malaria in Earth’s twentieth century. I have no idea of the long-term effect.”

“You have a treatment?” McCoy’s report had stated ‘unspecified’ under future treatment. He didn’t know if the doctor was being deliberately vague, but he had come to observe that McCoy seemed to favor deception and challenging rules.

“I can’t begin to treat this until Jim stabilizes. I’m pumping in antibiotics as fast as I can just to keep him from deteriorating further, but…” He shook his head. “It’s not enough to cure him.”

It took all his discipline not to demonstrate his frustration at McCoy’s fractional reporting style. He kept his gaze locked onto the man, as he asked, “Is it fatal?”

McCoy’s eyebrows twitched. “Even influenza can kill, Spock. There are no certainties. His damaged organs are the main concern. The microorganisms are secondary. Right now it’s not a threat to his life.”

Spock waited, staring unblinkingly at the doctor, who stared right back. McCoy was waiting, Spock realized, with the faintest challenge in the light colored eyes. He’d seen that look before on McCoy when the doctor had treated Kirk’s injures after the Narada had disappeared into the black hole. Did McCoy blame him for Kirk’s condition? Out of the periphery of his vision he saw Kirk lying still as death. “And the damage to the Captain’s spine?”

The darkness faded in the hazel eyes. “He’ll make a full recovery. It might take some time, but there’s no permanent damage.”

It took only a moment for Spock to shift his gaze and settle on Kirk. He was alive, Spock reminded himself. He had fulfilled his duty. Why then, he wondered, did it seem as if he had failed?

“We had to move him, Spock,” McCoy said.

Spock looked at McCoy, expecting to see the tight mouth and narrow eyes the doctor so readily displayed. But instead, the doctor’s expression was soft with understanding.

“He was bleeding to death.”

A calculated risk. What was it that Kirk had said?  ‘You’re captain now, Spock.’ As if that erased accountability. “When will he wake?”

McCoy’s mouth tightened as he broke Spock’s gaze. Turning his head, he looked at Kirk. “He should have awakened hours ago.”

* * *

Home.

Take me home.

A cool hand on his forehead. “You’re all right, Captain.”

A soft, feminine voice. Not home.

“You’re on _Enterprise_.”

He struggles to open his eyes and focus. The world around him is blurry and dark. The sun has gone down.

“You should rest,” the voice says.

He continues to try to focus. _Enterprise_? He can’t feel her, the soft drum of her engines. “Spock.” The word comes out garbled. His tongue is thick.

“I’m sorry, sir?”

The sound of artillery fills his ears. The battle is getting closer. Had Spock left him? They can’t be seen. They can’t get caught. Where was Weston?

He tries to move, but he can’t. He’s bound and restrained. A high-pitch whine sounds and there is the cacophony of voices. Hands are on him.

They are discovered. He fights because that’s what he does. He fails. Pain ignites in his spine, paralyzing him. An explosion of white light erupts in his head. Where is Spock? Where are his men? Somewhere deep inside a thought surfaces:  He wants to go home.

He sinks into dark numbness.

 

“You’re home, Jim.”

The voice awakens him, but his eyes are already open. He blinks and tries to focus on the image floating above him. It’s a very fuzzy McCoy.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He closes his eyes for a moment and feels his heart beating loudly. There’s movement around him and he hears soft metallic clicking. He takes a few gentle breaths. When he opens his eyes again he sees Bones staring down at him with a deep scowl.

“Not happy … to see … me?” he manages to get out. His throat is dry and sore.

“You make it difficult.”

His vision clears a little more. He sees the electric blue ceiling of Sickbay and the lights reflecting off it like stars. A slight shift of his head and he sees the privacy curtain is pulled. That’s not good. He focuses again on Bones.

“Welcome home,” Bones says flatly.

Home. His head hurts. “Spock?”

“Hold on.” Bones disappears from his view. He appears moments later. “I’m going to elevate the bed a little.”

The motion sends the world around him spinning, forcing him to close his eyes. His body is heavy and, aside from his head, nothing hurts.

“That’s because I’ve got you on a heavy dose of analgesic.”

He opens his eyes to find Bones staring intensely at him.

“You’re welcome. I don’t recommend moving. You undid some of my handiwork during you’re little episode last night. Even with the amount of painkillers I’ve got in you, you’ll feel it.”

He frowns. He doesn’t remember anything about last night … or getting onto the ship. But he does remember the hole in his side. His gaze travels up to the head of the bed and the bags of fluids hanging.  “Things okay?”

“Could be better.”

His head really hurts and he just wants a straight answer from Bones. He lets out a short breath. “Bones.”

“The photon missed your spine. Obviously. The damage is more soft tissue from the surrounding trauma. You lost quite a bit of blood, but you know that. Most of which we replaced.”

Bones continues staring at him, the hazel eyes sharp and penetrating. He sorts out what Bones is saying, but he can’t connect it all. So, he says, “Okay.”

Bones’ eyebrows rise slightly, then an instant later his eyes narrow. “There’s more. You picked up a parasite down there. Got into the open wound.”

He closes his eyes, not because he’s tired, but because he needs a moment to think and it’s too difficult to think and focus with the dancing lights and Bones staring and his head pounding. He must have drifted off because the next time he opens his eyes he is alone and the lights are dimmed. The soft sounds of the medical panel hum and beep like a lullaby. His head feels stuffy, but his thoughts are clear. After a few measured breaths, he drags his right hand across his body, pausing at the tender spot at his side. It is oddly numb. He remembers the pain of Spock pushing his hand into him trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Spock. Weston.

He rolls his head across the pillow to get a better look at the room, but he can only see to the privacy curtain. He half expects to see Bones sleeping in the empty chair, ready with a reassuring word. He hates this isolation. A dozen questions race through his mind, all needing answers. Was the mission a success? Was Weston on board?

‘Could be better,’ Bones had said.

Had he lost a man?

He suddenly realizes how warm he is. A trickle of sweat runs down his temple. The blanket is an unbearable restriction. He drags his hand from its resting spot on his injured side and grips the thin blanket, clumsily pulling it down. He shifts and the movement brings discomfort to his belly.

Suddenly, he’s not alone. A tall, red-headed nurse appears from behind the curtain.

“Everything all right, Captain?” she asks politely.

“I want to see Spock.”

She reaches for something above his head. “Just a moment.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. The deep throbbing in his belly is getting difficult to ignore. His body is covered with sweat.

It takes him a moment to realize M’Benga is in the room, speaking quietly to the nurse. His heart is pounding and he can’t seem to slow it down. He forces his eyes open and makes his best command.

“I want to … see Spock. _Now_.”

M’Benga looks down at him with a practiced expression that says nothing. “It’s gamma shift, Captain. He’s well off duty.”

The throbbing in his belly is more pronounced. He shifts again in an attempt to alleviate the pain. His body is shaking. “He’s the fucking captain. He’s always on duty.”

An alarm sounds.

The bed lowers until he lies flat. He doesn’t want this. He wants to talk to Spock, but he can’t seem to gather his thoughts from the pounding in his head and the pain in belly. Hands are in motion above him. It’s difficult to breathe, to think. All the while he’s staring at M’Benga who doesn’t seem to be concerned with carrying out his captain’s orders.

The new face in the room is not Spock as he requested, but that of McCoy, who is pushing M’Benga aside to stare down at him.

“Calm down, Jim.”

M’Benga says something to McCoy that he can’t hear, but it causes McCoy to turn away for a moment. When McCoy turns back to him, the doctor’s expression is soft.

“We’ve given you something for the pain, but you need to calm down.”

“Spock,” he manages to get out. His vision is getting dark. He tries to get up, but he really can’t move.

“Everything is all right.” There’s a cool hand on his forehead. “Just rest.”

He doesn’t want to rest, but whatever McCoy has given him is pulling him down. He’s too tired to resist.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Spock stepped onto the bridge just before the start of alpha shift. He paused a moment outside the turbo lift to scan the bridge, taking an account of the crew. Gamma shift was still on and preparing for duty change. Stepping down to the command chair, he seamlessly accepted the duty report from Commander Jani who relinquished the command chair.

Jani stood at near attention next to the chair as Spock read through the shift report. The shift report showed a compilation of the ship’s status, including a detail of ship-wide communications, personnel changes, and Department Head reports. He was focusing on communication and the status of _Enterprise’s_ missing crewmember, when his eyes caught an entry at the bottom. He looked up at Jani. “What is the nature of Mr. Stylic’s grievance?”

“Unfair treatment by a superior, sir.”  Jani was a muscular, overly-jovial human who had been in Starfleet since he was fourteen years old. He had met Kirk during a hand-to-hand combat training exercise at the Academy. Jani was the instructor. Kirk had recruited him for _Enterprise_ though the man had no prior command experience.

“He is inexperienced and unqualified,” Spock had told Kirk once the young captain had made his requisition.

“He’s a good fighter,” Kirk had said with a smile.

“That is hardly a qualification for Operations Officer.”

“I like him,” Kirk had said and ended the conversation.

Spock read the grievance. Mr. Stylic was following the chain of command, which meant, with Kirk on medical leave, that Spock needed to address the grievance. He looked back at Jani and nodded. “Thank you, Commander.”

Jani nodded, but made no attempt to leave.

“Is there something more, Commander?”

“I was … wondering how the Captain was doing.” He tried to look comfortable while asking, but Spock was adept enough at human body language to see he was not.

“The Captain is stable.”

Jani’s shoulders relaxed slightly and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That’s good news.”

Spock stared nonplussed at him. He had never understood the human need to soothe or categorize information in an attempt to make it into something more pleasing. But Uhura had counseled him that humans need reassurance and that the crew would be looking to him for that reassurance now that Kirk was wounded.

“I’m just saying people are worried,” she had told him last night.

“Worry is illogical.”

 She smiled slowly and touched his cheek. “Still. Say something nice to them.”

Jani waited, shifting his weight nervously.

“I will let the Captain know you inquired about his wellbeing.”

Jani smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

With that, Spock dismissed the commander with a nod. As alpha shift entered the bridge, he reviewed the shift report in more detail. He had already read Dr. McCoy’s medical report prior to leaving his quarters and no additional information would be available until McCoy went on duty. He knew Kirk had had a restless night and that McCoy had been called into Sickbay. The incident was not critical.

“Mr. Spock,” Uhura said from her console. “Admiral Pike is requesting a conference at ten hundred hours.”

He turned slightly toward her. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

The Admiral had no doubt read his report and his decision to remain in orbit in an attempt to locate Lt. Weston. “Mr. Chekov, what do the recent scans show?”

Chekov turned around. “The landing site field is clear of static, sir, but I cannot locate Lt. Weston.”

“Is his bio feed reporting?”

“No, sir. But that might not mean he’s dead.”

“He could have moved,” Sulu chimed in. “Gotten out of the way of the artillery.”

“Or moved further out of sight of the natives,” Chekov said.

Spock stared at the screen for a moment. “Expand your field, Mr. Chekov.” He turned to Uhura, who was watching him.

She shook her head. “Nothing on the comms, sir.”

Weston was an experienced and well-trained officer. He had been under Pike’s command for several years and it was Pike who had recommended him to Kirk. He had landing party experience and was known to follow protocol. If he were still alive, he would certainly be making attempts to communicate with the ship. Unless it were impossible for him.

“Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy requests you in Sickbay,” Uhura said.

He stood. “Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.”

As he walked to the turbo lift, he noticed Uhura rising to meet him. He stopped just before the lift.

“Is he really okay?” she asked quietly.

“He is stable.”

She stared at him with an expression he could easily interpret. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Dr. McCoy is uncertain.”

“You did what you could, Spock.”

They had already had this conversation last night. He did not feel it necessary to repeat it. He turned and stepped into the lift.

ef

McCoy entered Sickbay some twenty minutes late. He’d stopped off at the lab to get a status report. The microorganism had a shorter life span than they had originally thought, which meant they were closer to discovering a proper treatment for Jim. In the meantime, McCoy’s job was to treat the symptoms and hope that Jim didn’t get any worse, which wasn’t easy considering they were treating Jim on several levels.

He nodded to Dr. Albi, a young physician who was training on this mission. He was here to get his ship time in before being transferred to Starfleet Medical. He’d spend the next two years planet side. Lucky bastard. As McCoy moved toward the small area where Jim lay, Nurse Cini handed him Jim’s file.

“How is he?” he asked as he reviewed the file.

“He’s awake.”

He looked up at her in surprise. They had Jim on strong painkillers. He had expected the young man to sleep through the morning.

“And demanding to speak to Mr. Spock,” she added flatly.

 _Of course he is._ He nodded and stepped past her to enter the small curtained area. Jim was resting at an inclined thirty-degree angle. A sheen of sweat made his pale skin glow. At the sound of McCoy’s steps, he opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling, Jim?”

“Peachy.” There was a slight flush on his cheeks. His fever was still high. “I want to speak to Spock and none of your damn nurses will get him for me.”

McCoy could see Jim was uncomfortable, not only from the tension in his voice, but also from the tight way the man was holding himself, as if his body might break at any moment. He walked up to the bed. “That’s because I told them you’re not to be disturbed.”

“Since when does a nurse outrank a captain?”

He studied the panel, noting Jim’s temperature and high blood pressure. “Since the captain is a patient.”

“Then you tell me,” Jim demanded in a terse tone, “is Weston on board?”

He lowered his gaze to meet Jim’s angry expression. Jim had never been a good patient. In the three plus years he’d known Jim Kirk, the man had done everything in his power to avoid medical. But the few times he’d been under McCoy’s care he’d been difficult and uncooperative. Since becoming Captain, the man was unbearable as a patient. McCoy knew Jim’s anger was partly due to his discomfort and partly due to his helplessness at having left a crewmember behind. “No,” he said gently. “But no one’s giving up.”

Jim let out a rough breath that sounded suspiciously like a growl. “They damn well better not. I’m still the fucking captain.”

“Not right now, you’re not,” he said sternly. “You’ve got a competent First Officer. As long as you’re in this bed, he’s in charge.”

Jim stared at him for a moment, his body tense. A shiver tore through him and his expression softened. “You really suck at military protocol, you know that?”

For a moment, McCoy was reminded of their academy days, when Jim would rib him about his lack of military skills. He took the opportunity of Jim’s sudden good nature. “Well you didn’t hire me for my military genius. You’ve got Spock for that.”

Jim moved restlessly in the bed, grimacing as he did so. “This is my first set down, Bones.”

His expression softened. “I know.”

“I’m not losing a man.”

And that was it. This was Jim’s first planet side test as a captain and if he had to return home having lost a man that would not look good. It had taken him months to convince Pike to let him go planet side.

“I need to speak to Spock. I need to know what going on.”

McCoy looked at him and felt the first stab of sympathy. His primary responsibility was that of physician and patient care, but Jim had a way of pressing up against his boundaries and testing those professional limits. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll get him down here, but only for ten minutes. You’re still not ready to receive visitors.”

“Spock’s not a visitor … he’s my First Officer.” Jim closed his eyes suddenly.

McCoy studied him for a moment then looked up at the panel and scowled. “How’s your back?”

“Terrific,” he mumbled.

 _My ass._ McCoy adjusted the medications on the regulator. On the PADD he made a request for Spock to come to Sickbay. “You want a medical report?”

“No,” Jim said sounding surly, before opening his eyes and glaring at McCoy.

“Fine.” He set the PADD aside and began a brief physical exam. By the time he was done, he saw Spock waiting outside the curtained area. With a subtle nod of his head, he indicated to Spock he was ready. A moment later the Vulcan stepped forward.

Picking up his PADD, McCoy smoothly walked past Spock. “Ten minutes,” he said without missing a step. As he pulled the curtain behind him, he heard Jim inform Spock he was on report.

Tuning out the conversation, he made his way into the main bay, feeling the start of a headache. He’d missed his morning coffee and was beginning to feel it. He took a look at the daily itinerary. No injuries and the landing party had cleared medical, which meant only Jim was infected. These small jaunts Starfleet had ordered the Enterprise on were more like training missions, which made sense considering Jim was a very young and very untried captain. Even if he had saved Earth, Starfleet was still unsure about him, and rightly so.

It wasn’t so long ago that McCoy stood on the bridge as Sulu announced that Jim was the captain. It was still difficult for McCoy to see his impetuous friend as the highest-ranking officer on the ship. And yet, Jim had performed brilliantly these past few months. He had a natural leadership ability that extended to the crew, who seemed to respond to him. Some of that was Jim’s already burgeoning reputation as a brilliant strategist who bucked the rules. Who didn’t want to be stationed on Starfleet’s newest commissioned ship commanded by their latest hero?

“Dr. McCoy.”

He looked up from the screen as Nurse Phillips approached. She walked straight and determined. She must have read his directive to remove her from Jim’s care. He didn’t have time for this today and certainly wasn’t going to justify his decision to a nurse.

“I’d like to discuss your decision to remove me from Captain Kirk’s care,” she began. “I—”

“There’s nothing to discuss. My patient. My decision.” He stood from the console and walked past her. Some days he missed Atlanta General and civilians.

He was stopped twice more on his way to his office. By the time he got free, he realized the time and with an irritated scowl, turned to the curtained area. He was just about to pull the curtain back and berate Spock when the Vulcan stepped out.

With a brief nod, Spock walked passed him, leaving McCoy tight-lipped. Pig-headed, computer… He’d never understand what Jim saw in the Vulcan.

“Give him a chance,” Jim had said one night over drinks. “He may grow on you.”

In a pig’s eye. He entered the privacy area, ready to order Jim to rest, but the young man’s eyes were closed and he was already asleep.

* * *

The conference with Admiral Pike was brief and predictable.

“How in hell did you lose a man?” Pike demanded. “Your orders were to observe, not engage.”

Pike had read Spock’s report, which was thorough and detailed. Pike knew the answer to his own question. Spock was also aware of the scrutiny _Enterprise_ and its young captain was under and the risks Pike was taking with his career in mentoring Kirk. Since being abruptly promoted to captain, Kirk had attracted the attention of several admirals, none of whom were in high support of Kirk’s unorthodox and impetuous command style.

“We took great care to not engage with the natives. It is highly unlikely they noticed us.”

“Highly unlikely isn’t good enough,” Pike fired back. “Find your missing crew, Spock, before the natives find him.”

“We are attempting to do just that, Admiral.”

“And where are these weapons coming from?” Pike demanded. “Photons are well beyond the ability of this planet’s development.”

“Unknown.”

“Well _find out_ , Commander. If another race is interfering in this planet’s development, I want to know who it is.”

“Such information will be difficult to attain if we cannot engage the natives.”

“Then get creative.” Pike shifted in his seat. “And I want to talk to Dr. McCoy.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“You’ve got a lot of eyes on this one, Commander,” Pike said meeting Spock’s stare. “I don’t want to be standing before the board trying to explain how Starfleet lost one of its crew in the middle of a battle created by unknown operatives.”

“Understood, sir.”

 He signaled Uhura to transfer the call to Sickbay. His meeting with Kirk had not gone any better.

 

_“Expand the search,” Kirk said, shifting uncomfortably in bed. His pale features were pinched with pain. “He’s down there somewhere. He probably moved to avoid detection.”_

_“There is the possibility that Lt. Weston is dead.”_

_“He’s not dead.”_

_Spock stared at him. “You cannot be certain of that. You reported he was following you when you were hit from behind. You were in the line of heavy fire. There is a high probability that he succumbed to fire.”_

_“Then find me the body, Spock.” He pressed a hand to his side and held Spock’s stare. “Are his bio-sensors flat?”_

_“Those are not reliable.”_

_Starfleet regulations were clear. No member of Starfleet was to be left behind without an exhaustive search. The commanding officer was held personally responsible for a missing-in-action crew member. But Spock knew that wasn’t what was bothering Kirk. The newly commissioned captain had hand-picked every member on the Enterprise, interviewed each one and remarkably knew their personnel file. Unlike Pike, Kirk interacted with crewmembers casually and seemed to like to visit all the departments and perform the functions, something Spock had found unnecessary._

_“I will expand the search.”_

_“And send down a drone.” A shiver tore through Kirk. His fingers curled into the thin blanket. “I want to know where in hell these weapons came from.”_

_“A drone is risky. They are not undetectable.”_

_“Then find a way to hide it.”_

Spock stared at the view screen, watching the planet before them. Working with humans was complicated. Working with an inexperienced captain was pressing his Vulcan discipline. Kirk’s mind was mercurial, his command style unorthodox and his actions always unpredictable. They had different backgrounds and approaches, and often times were at odds. Why Admiral Pike thought they were a good together was incomprehensible to Spock. Regardless, he was First Officer of the _Enterprise_ , and he had a duty.

“Lt. Chekov, what is the status on the drone?”

* * *

Kirk’s head hurt. The constant pain splitting the center of his skull had not relented all day. Whatever medication Bones was pushing through his IV, it had done nothing to ease the pain, which was not isolated to his head. Every muscle in his body had suddenly become like old rope, brittle and inflexible. Each time he moved, it set off a new string of aches from his neck down to his toes. So he lay as still as possible, feeling the misery.

“How are you doing, Captain?” Citi asked, pushing aside the curtain.

And that was the other source of his discomfort – the overly cheerful nurses that seemed to appear from nowhere, asking obligatory questions.

“Fine,” he said and tried to curl his lips into a smile and relax, but the pain made it almost impossible.

Her features were pleasant and well-practiced – the neutral, compassionate mask of a medical professional. He could be on fire and she wouldn’t break the mask.  She glanced briefly at the panel before returning her attention to him. “Would you like something to eat?”

It was the second time she’d asked him that in three hours. The thought of food made his throat tighten. “No.”

He noticed his breathing was a little increased. He tried to slow it down.

She nodded with a smile and left.

As much as he hated Sickbay, he was grateful for the opaque curtain which offered him an illusion of privacy. At least the rest of the crew didn’t have a front row seat to his misery. It was bad enough that he had to save face with the medical staff. He closed his eyes, trying to minimize the pain in his head. The sounds of Sickbay echoed just beneath the pounding. As if the sounds of medical processes weren’t distasteful enough, the smells of disinfectant and ionized air were worse. His stomach rolled.

He shifted his thoughts to the mission, but found it difficult to concentrate. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep still and moving restlessly only set off another wave of pain through his muscles. He needed to review Spock’s report. Pike was already on the warpath and he needed to sew this thing up fast. His legs jerked. The IV pinched at his hand. Weston was smart. He’d have found a way to stay alive and out of sight, but he wouldn’t be hiding. Why couldn’t _Enterprise_ find him?

He relaxed his spine against the cushioned pad of the bed. Bones had removed the brace, but the ache of his healing injury made finding a comfortable position impossible. At least the deep throbbing in his belly had stopped. For now.

What had he been thinking? Right, Weston. He opened his eyes just in time to see Bones scowling as he pushed aside the curtain. He squinted against the bright lights.

“What do I have to do to get you to rest?” Bones asked, stepping inside the small area.

“I am resting.” Even to his own ears his voice sounded bitter. Had the lights just gotten brighter?

“Then why is your blood pressure going through the roof?” Bones stopped near the head of the bed and glared down at him. “This isn’t helping your recovery.”

He moved restlessly, against his will, setting off the awful aches throughout his body. How does one escape their own body? He wanted to walk out of Sickbay and lead the search party himself, but he couldn’t even contemplate sitting up, much less standing. His entire body felt as if he’d been soundly beaten.

Bones’ expression softened. “Do you want me to put the brace back on?”

“No.” He closed his eyes and shifted again, barely suppressing a groan. _Slow down your breathing._ His head hammered in time with his heartbeat.

“Lights at thirty percent,” Bones ordered.

Jim heard movement and after a moment, he opened his eyes. Bones was making notes in a PADD that seem to appear from thin air. “You’ve got to eat something, Jim. This fever is chewing up your reserves. I’m having a hell of a time balancing your electrolytes.” 

“Not hungry.”

“I’m going to have a nurse bring some broth,” Bones said without pausing.

Jim let out a frustrated breath. He knew arguing with Bones was useless. The doctor was going to do what he wanted no matter what Jim said. He needed to save his strength for more important things.  “Where’s Spock?”

“On the Bridge, I imagine.” He reached and adjusted a setting on the panel above Jim’s head.

“I want to see him.” Jim shifted again, feeling his muscles stretch and pull. His skin was sensitive and every movement produced a burning sensation that seemed to spread across his nerves like a hot iron.

“After you eat.” Bones stared down at him. “How are you feeling?”

“Lousy.” He rolled his head away from Bones, stifling a moan.

“I can see that. Want to narrow it down for me?”

 _Go away._ God his head hurt.

He heard Bones sigh. “Look, Jim. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. Is it your back?”

He didn’t even feel his back among the other aches. “No.”

“There’s still some residual swelling, but that should go down soon.” Pause. “I can order a sonic treatment?”

Silence.

He wouldn’t look at Bones. His breathing was still heavy and that seemed only to make his misery worse, as did the thin gown that stuck to his skin like wet leaves.

“Goddamn it, Jim. Will you talk to me?”

“What?” He rolled his head along the pillow, watching the room spin. He could feel his skin crack. “What do you want to know, Bones?”

“I want to know where you hurt, damn it!”

If he hadn’t been so miserable, he would have laughed. This was Bones’ idea of a bedside manner. “Everywhere. Happy?”

“Yes,” Bones shot back, and then sobered into a purely medical expression. The hazel eyes were sharp and scrutinizing. “Fever making you achy?”

He looked away from Bones.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He made a quick note on the PADD. “You’re showing progress despite the fever. At least your major organs are improving in function.”

“Yippee.” His splitting headache made him want to do nothing more than to bury his headache beneath the pillow.

A nurse entered the small enclosure carrying a tray. She handed Bones a hypo from the tray then set it down. Jim saw a steaming bowl placed before him. Bones made short work of the hypo, injecting it into the IV port on his hand. The hot flush of medication entered his bloodstream. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his temple. His skin was sticky with it.

“That should help with the aches,” Bones said.

The nurse was making an adjustment to the bed. Suddenly, the padding was less hard and abrasive, as if he were resting on air. Despite himself, he sighed at the sheer pleasure of it.

“Better?”

He nodded.

“Good.” Bones pulled the bowl closer. “Now eat.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

In the corridor just outside of sickbay, McCoy pressed his hand against the back of his neck, feeling the knots beneath the skin. He’d spent too many hours over reports and needed a sonic treatment in the worse way. Better yet, a nice glass of bourbon – neat. He should go to his quarters and take a shower, open the bottle of bourbon he’d smuggled on board and call it a night. God, he wished he could get drunk.

But he couldn’t. He had to find Spock.

He stopped just before the turbo lift doors and realized he didn’t know where he was going. Where in the hell do you find an off-duty Vulcan?

“Computer, locate Commander Spock.”

_Commander Spock is in Engineering._

So much for off-duty. The turbo lift doors slid open and two crewmen walked out.

“Hey, Doc,” one of the crewman said.

It was always casual outside of Sickbay. It was a different story when they were sitting on a diagnostic bed, wringing their hands and looking anxious.

“How’s the captain?”

It was something McCoy was still getting accustomed to – the lack of privacy in Starfleet. Back in Georgia he wouldn’t have been allowed to say anything to anyone who wasn’t on the patient list of approval. Privacy was sacred in medical private practice on Earth. It was non-existent in Starfleet. Jim was the captain of the ship, the commander, and his crew needed to know if he was okay, if they were going to be okay. It was the symbiotic relationship between captain and crew that he was coming to understand.

“He’s doing better,” he said automatically as he stepped past them and entered the lift, anxious to put some space between them. “Be up and around in no time.”

He didn’t mention that Jim hadn’t kept down the bowl of broth, was pale as bleached linen and weak as a kitten. There really weren’t any secrets on a ship. As much as he tried to control gossip from his medical staff, word got out. Despite Jim’s reputation as being indestructible – McCoy had to laugh at that one – he was a very young and untried Starship Captain and a captain in Sickbay wasn’t good for moral.

He was alone in the lift and closed his eyes for a moment, took a few breaths and let the tension settle as he felt the motion of the lift. At least Jim was finally showing improvement. The parasite had eaten away at his organs, but between surgery and some stem cell treatments they had gotten them functioning to almost eighty-five percent. It was the damn fever that was taking its toll on Jim. No matter what McCoy prescribed, the fever continued and the parasite persisted. He could operate on anything, but it was diseases that became the bane of a physician’s task.

The lift doors opened and he immediately opened his eyes and stepped out.

Engineering was his least favorite place to be and the number one area where most of the crew injuries came from. Between the catwalks and hazardous chemicals, it was a wonder anyone survived a tour in engineering without injury. It was no surprise that after the Bridge, Engineering was Jim’s favorite place.

“Doctor McCoy,” Scotty said, appearing from behind a column to his left. He was in overalls and covered in sweat. “What brings you down here?”

“I’m looking for Spock.”

“Ah, right. He’s in D12, looking at the drones.”

“Thanks.” He looked over at the section in the far end of Engineering and paused. “Any word on Weston?”

“No. If he’s hiding, he’s doing a great job of it.”

It’d been four days now and the likelihood of finding Weston was becoming less likely with each passing day.

Scotty seemed to interpret his thoughts. “Weston’s a smart lad. He knows we’re looking for him, but he can’t be found by the inhabitants. He just has to get into the right position.”

And _Enterprise_ had to find that position. McCoy studied him. “You seem confident he’s alive.”

Scotty raised his eyebrows. “If he isn’t we’d better come up with a body.”

McCoy nodded. Missing in action wasn’t a possibility. They had to find Weston one way or another. No Starship had left a man behind in three decades. _Enterprise_ couldn’t be the first.

Scotty put a hand on his arm. “How’s Jim?”

He looked at the worried expression on Scotty’s face. He knew the two men shared a friendship, that Jim had in effect rescued Scotty from exile and resurrected his career. But it went beyond that. The two men were eerily similar and shared a love of the ship that McCoy just couldn’t understand. “Weak as a newborn gorn and twice as ornery.”

Scotty barked out a laugh. “Aye, he doesn’t care too much for recuperation … unless it’s on the Bridge.” Then he sobered. “Doesn’t like losing a man, either.”

McCoy nodded with empathy. He knew what was keeping Jim awake, and the fever was only part of it.

Someone called to Scotty from across the bay and he moved away, mumbling under his breath, leaving McCoy alone. Jim hated being away from the Bridge, but to be confined to a sickbed … it was taking all McCoy’s skills to keep the young man in bed, despite his obvious weakness. But that wasn’t why he needed to talk to Spock.

He found the Vulcan in a small bay area near the end of Engineering, speaking to two technicians over a battered drone. He waited just outside until Spock finished then caught his attention with a nod of his head.

Spock approached him with a slight frown. “Is the Captain’s condition worse?”

“No. He’s holding his own. Showing some improvement.”

He seemed to settle his shoulders. “Then how can I help you?”

“I’ve had my third conversation with Admiral Pike regarding the Captain.”

“It is within the purview of the Admiral to make such inquires.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “I know that. I went to the Academy same as you.”

“Then what is your point, Doctor?”

He suddenly understood Jim’s desire that terrible day on the Bridge to throttle the Vulcan. He took a measured breath. “My point is that Jim’s a new captain and this is his first planet side landing party.” He waited for Spock’s reaction. None came. “He can’t fail. He’s stuck in Sickbay, recovering from major surgery, infected with some unknown parasite and he’s left a man on a sovereign planet that’s in the middle of some civil war.”

 Spock took barely a moment to consider him. “What would you have me do, Doctor? The Captain’s health falls under your duties.”

“ _You’re_ acting-captain of this ship, Spock. It’s hard enough to treat Jim for some unknown parasite without me having to regurgitate the whole damn thing every day and justify my treatments.” He took a breath. “Get Pike off my back!”

Spock put his hands behind his back. “And how do you propose I do that, Doctor? He is an admiral and he has been given _Enterprise_ to oversee.”

McCoy pressed his lips together tightly. “You’re supposed to be some genius, Spock. You figure it out before the man shows up here and we’re all having to explain ourselves.”

Spock looked exasperated. “It is highly unlikely that Admiral Pike would make a ship incursion. Such an action would undermine Captain Kirk’s authority.”

“My point exactly.”

 

* * *

 

 

The shaking started at 0100 hours. McCoy had gotten an urgent call from M’Benga, waking him from much-needed sleep. By the time he’d gotten to Sickbay, M’Benga and a small team of nurses surrounded Kirk.

“Hang a unit of Trextide,” M’Benga ordered from the foot of the bed.

Kirk was curled on his side and shaking so violently McCoy could hear his teeth chattering. “What happened?” McCoy demanded.

M’Benga handed him Jim’s chart. “Started about ten minutes ago. I pushed 10cc of Iondozi.”

McCoy read the chart. The Iondozi had not been effective. “Hold on the Trextide. Let’s give the Iondozi another minute.” He stepped over to the edge of the bed and looked down at Jim. The young man’s knuckles were white, fingers twisted into the white blanket and gripping like death. He was shaking uncontrollably from head to toe. It was difficult to remember that only a few hours ago the young man had been resting peacefully. McCoy raised his eyes to the panel and scowled.

“Get a blood sample and rush it down to the lab,” he ordered, dropping his gaze to Jim. Deathly pale and sweating, Jim’s eyes were partially closed and dulled, his body rigid and shaking. McCoy knew his friend was unaware of them.

"It has to be an unforeseen symptom of the parasite,” M’Benga said, stepping beside McCoy and looking down at Jim. “It started suddenly and without any signs.”

A nurse was busy taking a blood sample, but Jim’s shaking body made it difficult.

“What are you looking for in the blood sample?” M’Benga asked.

“Answers.” He wanted to brush his hand against Jim’s hair and let his friend know that it was all right, that he wasn’t alone. But he had to maintain professional distance. He had to be Jim’s doctor now; not his friend.

They had only just begun an experimental treatment to kill the parasite and he wondered if the medication they had given Jim had caused the shaking or if they were dealing with a febrile illness. Malaria had been eradicated on Earth over a century ago, but he couldn’t help but see a similarity in Jim’s condition and the old medical records in Earth’s history.

“Dr. McCoy?” M’Benga asked suddenly.

“Mm?”

“I asked if you wanted to continue the Lionide?”

The experimental treatment.

“Let’s see what the blood tests bring back. This might not be a setback.” Jim’s system was sensitive to medications and he hated introducing anything more or eliminating anything until he fully understood what was going on. Stopping treatment might be detrimental to Jim’s recovery. Or it could save his life.

Suddenly, Jim’s shaking stopped and Jim made a soft sound.

McCoy stepped closer and leaned down, trying to position himself directly in Jim’s line of sight. “It’s okay, Jim.” He didn’t know what else to say. He just needed Jim to recognize him, to let him know that his friend heard and understood.

The eyes – dull and narrow – stared without blinking. His hand twitched.

“Jim?” He put a hand on Jim’s shoulder and squeezed. The flesh was hot, the muscles pliant like soft clay.

Jim took a few shallow breaths and closed his eyes.

“His vitals are stabilizing,” M’Benga said quietly. “BP is low.”

Anemia. They’d been fighting it from the beginning, along with the resulting hypotension. He straightened and studied the panel one more time. “Keep the Ringer’s going and hang a unit of fresh cells. Cancel the Trextide. Let’s let him sit with this and see how he does.”

M’Benga nodded. “You gonna stay?”

He nodded. He sure as hell wasn’t going to leave now. Sleep would be impossible. “Run a full scan. Let’s make sure the rigor didn’t upset the surgery sites.”

M’Benga began to setup for the scan.

“I’ll be in my office.” He wanted to look at the lab results again. He couldn’t help but feel he’d missed something. It was just intuition, a gut feeling he’d developed years ago and it had served him well. It was how he had come to distrust a total reliance on technology. Sometimes he just had to put his hands on a patient to find out what was wrong. His instructors had hated it, stated it was an archaic method of practicing medicine. 

“Use the technology, Leonard. It’s there for a reason,” the chief resident had chastised him.

He was deep in thought as he walked toward his office and almost missed the tall, imposing figure standing outside his office door. He scowled as he stepped past the Vulcan.

“What are you doing here, Spock?” He was still pissed at Spock and didn’t see any reason to hide it.

Spock followed behind, inviting himself into McCoy’s office. “How is the Captain?”

“Sleeping.” He threw himself into the chair behind his desk and resisted the urge to sigh. Still, he rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

Silence.

McCoy dropped his hands and stared at Spock, scowling. The First Officer looked as uncomfortable as a Vulcan could look. Christ. “Don’t tell me Pike is on his way.”

“He is not.”

“Okay,” he said at length, studying Spock as he leaned back in the soft cushion of his chair. He liked that for once he had the upper hand with the Vulcan. If he hadn’t been so damn tired, he would have savored the situation a little more. “Something’s on your mind. I’d offer you a drink, but that would be a waste of good bourbon.”

“Vulcans do not drink alcohol and you are on duty.”

He snorted and hit a control on the desk consol. A vid image of Jim’s bed appeared. At the bottom of the screen a string of vitals displayed. He could see M’Benga and another nurse at the sides of Jim’s bed, setting up a new IV.

“You are concerned,” Spock said.

He looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of some emotion that might indicate what the hell was going on in Spock’s mind. There was none. The black eyes were hooded, as usual, the face a well-practiced mask. He looked back at the monitor with a barely concealed sigh. “It’s my job to be concerned.”

Pause.

“Does your concern mean that the Captains prognosis has now grown more uncertain?”

Son-of-a-bitch. Anger rose in him. Jim was only a few meters away and already the vultures were circling. “Acting-captain not good enough for you, Spock. Bucking for a permanent position?” He glanced up and saw, only for a moment, a softening around the eyes, eyes that were no longer hooded and distant, but concerned.

“I was merely inquiring.” The mask was back in place.

But McCoy knew what he’d seen. Maybe Jim was right. Maybe there were well-hidden depths to Spock. He should apologize; tell Spock he was tired and worried. But instead he said, “He may have had an adverse reaction to the medication. More than likely it was a component of the parasite. Doesn’t look like it did any permanent damage.”

And then it hit him: that’s why Spock was here in the middle of the night. He, too, was concerned about Jim. But he was too tired to call the Vulcan on it. He didn’t want to step into the middle of whatever emotionally constipated relationship Jim and the Vulcan had created.

“You can see him if you want,” he said flatly. “He’s sleeping.”

Spock remained impassive, polite, then he bowed his head in a purely formal gesture and turned to leave.

“Don’t disturb him,” he called after Spock.

* * *

The fever on the human was obvious, even without the benefit of the biobed scanners. At times, Kirk lay still as death, pale and barely breathing. Other times his respirations were rapid and shallow, the pale lips parted slightly. Always there was a film of sweat and a flush on the hollowed cheeks. But there was more than the visual, Spock could sense and smell the sickness within Kirk.

It was something humans didn’t understand about Vulcans. The emotional barriers it had taken most of Spock’s life to erect were a necessity, not a cultural preference. Since leaving Vulcan years ago, Spock had realized how necessary those barriers were to his well-being. Humans constantly broadcasted their emotions during the course of a day, sometimes deliberately, and often switching emotions rapidly. But when a human was sick, the emotions became more intense.

Spock felt it in the confined space of the bed – fear.

His barriers were strongly in place, as they always were, but it was impossible not to feel the emotions of Kirk. He had been exposed to them before, on the planet, on the bridge during the Narada incident. Kirk was emotional, intense, passionate, and yet oddly disciplined when he chose. That did not make him unusual for his species. What did make Kirk unusual was the speed at which his mind worked. He was the only human who had kept pace with Spock since he had entered the academy.

“He’s the Kelvin baby,” cadets would whisper. “He’s _that_ Kirk.”

A hero’s son.

A legend.

Spock knew something of being the son of a legend.

A nurse entered and checked the monitor, made a note on the chart. Her hands lingered as she checked the IV port and she took a moment to look at Kirk, resting with an uncommonly peaceful expression, unguarded and vulnerable. She reached for his face then immediately abandoned the gesture, suddenly self-conscious. She looked at Spock and smiled nervously at him before leaving.

Yes, a legend.

_Welcome Ambassador Spock._

He recalled the mechanical tone as he entered the small vessel. Ambassador. He had left Vulcan to start anew, to leave behind the uniqueness of being half Vulcan, half human, to go where no one knew him. And now he realized that he was the one serving a legend.

Kirk made a small sound, drawing his attention. The thick brows drew together slightly and he moved restlessly beneath the light blanket, mumbling softly.

Spock waited for the nurse to enter or for McCoy to appear, as he always seemed to, but he remained alone. As Kirk muttered, he took a few steps closer to the bed. He was not good with sick people. Vulcans did not require the type of care humans did. They sought a healer in seclusion or went into a healing meditation in isolation. He had no practice at comforting. Even when Kirk was bleeding, he had failed to offer comfort.

His mother had comforted him as a child with soothing words and gentle touches. But Kirk was no child and he had exceptional medical care. _Enterprise_ was equipped with the most up-to-date medical technology available in the Federation, and McCoy, despite his lack of bedside manners, was an excellent physician. Kirk had the care he needed.

So why did Spock want to touch him?

_“Humans are frail,” his father had explained to him one day as a child when he had inadvertently broken the arm of his human cousin._

_“He wanted to learn Tal-Vor.”_

_“You must remember your strength and that humans often say they can do things they cannot.”_

He heard the sound of footsteps and took a step back from the bed just before McCoy entered.

Studying the panel above Kirk’s bed, McCoy said, “He’s just dreaming. Fever’s still high.” With a sigh, he looked down at Kirk. “He hates being sick.”

As if on cue, Kirk moaned low and rolled onto his side. McCoy soothed back the damp wisps of hair that stuck to the fevered skin.

Spock clasped his hands behind his back. “I will leave you to his care.”

He turned to leave. Just as he stepped to the end of the privacy curtain, he turned back to McCoy. “Thank you, Doctor.”

McCoy craned his head around, a single eyebrow raised. After a moment, he said, “You’re welcome, Spock.”

  

* * *

 

 Somewhere around 0400 Jim’s fever broke. He opened his eyes and rolled over with a moan. McCoy was on a conference call with Pike and wasn’t told of Jim’s revival until after he’d disconnected with the Admiral. Pike’s interest in Jim’s condition had intensified and it hadn’t been a short conversation.

Just as he stepped out of his office to check on Jim, an emergency entered Sickbay. Soba, a petite yeoman from transport, had all but crushed her right leg when a mobile charge unit snapped from its secure position on the wall. It took both M’Benga and McCoy working on her leg to save it.

Three hours in surgery, half an hour in post-op and another hour filling out reports and updating Spock and he finally got a quick shower and late breakfast before entering Jim’s room, looking a lot more refreshed than he felt.

 “How are you feeling?” McCoy asked Jim, taking a lingering look at his patient as he grabbed the PADD from the end of the bed.

Jim was sitting up in bed, having just finished his breakfast. His hair was plastered with sweat and stuck to his scalp, the blond highlights darkened. Faint bruises underlined his eyes, which were no longer dull, but their usual brilliant azure. Still, he looked a little dazed.

“Good.” His voice was rough and a little weak. “Tired.”

McCoy nodded. “Not surprising. You had a rough time last night.”

Jim frowned.

“Do you remember last night?” McCoy asked cautiously, scrutinizing Jim.

“Not really. I remember being cold.” He swallowed past the dryness. “Whatever you gave me did the trick.”

“I didn’t give you anything.” McCoy studied the PADD. “You’ve got some color, anyway.”

The packed cells had helped with the anemia, stabilizing Jim’s blood pressure. No fever, but mild vertigo was reported two and a half hours ago. He had managed to keep his breakfast down.

“No nausea?” McCoy asked, his fingers sliding through the chart. They had stopped the Lionide without any adverse effects.

“Not really.”

He looked up sharply at that. Jim was pale, but that was to be expected. He didn’t see any signs of obvious discomfort. “How’s your back?”

Jim shrugged. “How’s Ensign Soba?”

It didn’t surprise him that news of Soba’s accident had reached Jim, but it did irritate him. “Saved the leg. For now.” He set down the PADD and moved to the side of the bed. “Lean forward.”

It took a little effort for Jim to lean away from the soft cushion of the bed. He tipped slightly, gripping the blanket. McCoy’s hands came up instantly to steady him. The vertigo passed quickly and McCoy slid his hands down Jim’s back, gently probing his spine.

Jim grunted and pulled away automatically.

“Want to answer that question again?” McCoy asked, his hands still pressed to Jim’s lower back. There was no swelling that he could feel.

“I didn’t say to jab your fingers into it.”

McCoy smiled despite himself and gently eased Jim back against the cushions, noting the tension around Jim’s eyes and the altered breathing.

“What do you mean “for now”?” Jim asked.

“Mm? Oh, Soba. The leg was pretty badly damaged. It’ll take some rehab and a few more surgeries.” He moved his hands to Jim’s abdomen. The surgical incision was healing nicely and Jim’s skin for once didn’t feel hot with fever. "Any tenderness?”

“If I say yes, will you stop poking me?” He all but gasped the words.

 “It’s called an exam and stop holding your breath.” He glanced up at the monitor, noting the decreased respirations.

“Stop poking me.”

McCoy stilled his hands and allowed Jim to steady his breath. Once the respirations were steady, he continued his exam. After a moment, he withdrew his hands and pulled the blanket up.

“Well,” Jim asked tiredly, “will I live?”

“I’m a doctor, not a fortune teller.” He made a quick note on Jim’s chart. “The parasite has run its course, so … for now you’re a-symptomatic.”

“So I can go.”

McCoy stared, nonplussed. “No you cannot go, you moron. You have an unknown parasite inside of you. You want to infect this entire ship?”

Jim frowned. “Am I contagious?”

McCoy sighed. “Until we find a way to kill this thing, I’m not taking any chances. We don’t know for certain how it’s transmitted.”

It took a moment for Jim to process what McCoy had said. “So I could get sick again?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“We don’t know the life cycle. Could be days or weeks.”

Jim’s frown deepened. “I’m not staying in Sickbay for weeks, Bones.”

“Well you’re not going to the Bridge,” he shot back. “You had major surgery, blood loss, and trauma to your organs. Not to mention a high fever for days. Your body needs to recover.”

“I feel fine, Bones,” he said softly, his lids drooping.

“Uh, ha.”

“I’m just tired.” Jim looked up at him with an almost pleading expression.

“What better place to rest than Sickbay.”

“I can think of a hundred.” He rolled his head away from McCoy.

McCoy studied his friend. Within moments Jim’s eyes closed and his body relaxed into the natural rhythm of sleep.

* * *

Jim woke to the sound of arguing. He couldn’t distinguish the voices, but the tone pulled him up from the layers of blissful sleep. For the first time since waking in Sickbay he actually felt okay. He wasn’t sweating with fever or shivering with chills. Other than a faint throbbing in his middle, nothing hurt. The deep and pervasive ache that had plagued him seemed like a dull memory. Even his headache was gone. He took a moment to savor the sensation, drawing in a few breaths before opening his eyes. The curtain was still closed and the lights slightly dimmed.

“It’s not your decision.” He recognized McCoy’s heated voice, coming from somewhere behind the curtain.

“Nor is it yours, Doctor,” Spock said.

Jim pushed up on his elbows, grunting at the stab in his middle. Holding his breath, he raised himself up into a sitting position. “Bones.” The word was little more than a whisper. The room spun for a few seconds as his heart thudded against his chest.

The voices rose louder, but he couldn’t understand them, except for the word ‘Pike’ that penetrated the buzz in his head.

Pike? Shit.

“Bones,” he said more strongly, forcing the word out. A gray veil fell over his eyes and his head began to pound. Why was Pike involved? Were they back on Earth? How long had he been out? He felt himself listing. Fuck. If Spock took the ship out of orbit … Suddenly there were hands on him, pushing him back to lie on the bed.

“Damn it, Jim. Do I have to tie you to this bed?”

He sank into the cushion and waited for the grey to lift as McCoy fussed around him. As his heartbeat slowed and his vision cleared, he found himself staring at the austere features of his First Officer. Spock stood on the opposite side of the bed, watching with hooded eyes. Jim had a flash of Spock leaning over him, a hand pressed to his bloody side. Not the way he wanted to make friends with his First Officer. He stared at the dark eyes. What the hell was the Vulcan thinking?

McCoy laid a hand on his chest.

“I’m fine, Bones,” Jim said, pushing away Bones’s hands. It was then that he noticed he no longer had in the IV. But before he could relish that fact, he made an attempt to sit straighter in the bed, only to have a sharp pull in his middle stall his efforts. He hated being laid out, especially in front of Spock. In his mind, he still thought of Spock as the instructor at the academy that had called him out in front of his peers for cheating. He had to get out of Sickbay.

“You are looking more rested, Captain,” Spock said.

“Don’t encourage him,” McCoy said, crossing his arms over his chest.

He glared at McCoy before focusing on Spock. “What about Pike?”

“We received a communication from the _Arlington_ ,” Spock said. “Admiral Pike is in route to _Enterprise_. The _Arlington_ will intercept us in 13.4 hours.”

Pike left Earth? He glanced at Bones who looked oddly guilty. “We haven’t found Weston.”

“The probes have proven to be ineffective,” Spock said.

Jim frowned. “What does that mean?”

“They are not reporting back information. The data has been corrupted.”

He stared at the far end of the privacy screen. This simple mission was turning out FUBAR. No Weston. No data. A primitive planet with photons. An unexpected civil war and no information. “Pike is pissed.”

“The Admiral did not seem pleased.”

“He isn’t leaving Earth to congratulate us.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “We have to get some information before he arrives.”

“Our probe—”

“We’re not sending down probes.” He moved restlessly in bed. His skin felt tight.  The probes weren’t working. He was done wasting time. “We missed something. Go back over the data from our first contact. I want to see every landing party member in the conference room in three hours.”

“Jim—” McCoy began.

“And have Uhura there, as well. She’s been monitoring transmissions. I want a full breakdown.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“You’re not leaving this bed,” McCoy interjected sternly.

“I’m not meeting Pike lying down. Besides, you heard Spock – I look more rested.”

“Rested, not recovered. There’s a difference,” McCoy said, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Not a good sign.

He looked at Spock and nodded a dismissal. Once Spock had left, he directed his attention to McCoy. “I’m not losing a man, and I’m not letting Pike board this ship and take over while I lie in Sickbay.”

McCoy scowled. “You might not have a choice. I’m still CMO and I haven’t released you to duty.”

He gave Bones one of his playful looks. “A captain is always on duty.”

“Bull shit.”

He growled in frustration and pushed at the blankets. “At least let me take a shower.”

McCoy sighed. “Jim, you’ve been seriously ill for a few days. You can’t just hop out of bed and start traipsing around the ship. You need to regain some strength. That’s not going to happen in a few hours.”

“I only asked to take a shower, Bones,” he said flatly.

All sense of humor left McCoy’s face. “This isn’t my first rodeo with you, Jim. I know damn well what you asked for. I don’t need you pushing yourself and having a relapse. Besides, we don’t know when you’ll have another episode from this parasite. You want to collapse in front of Pike?”

God, Bones was impossible when he got on a roll.

“Are you going to let me have a shower or not?”

In the end he got the shower he wanted. McCoy insisted on a hover chair to the shower, which Kirk thought was overkill, but after a few minutes of standing in the shower, his legs were like rubber. He all but fell back into the chair, his legs shaking and weak. McCoy said nothing as he pushed him back to bed. Within minutes of slipping between the clean linens, he was fast asleep.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The last place Kirk wanted to meet Pike was Sickbay, even if he was standing on his own feet. After several hours of pleading his case, McCoy had finally relented and had released him from Sickbay, restricting him to his quarters.

“You need to rest, Jim. Just because you can walk from one end of Sickbay to the other doesn’t mean you’re healed. Your hematocrit is still low and you have a low grade fever. You still need meds and monitoring. And _rest_. You want out of Sickbay, you stay in your quarters.”

Since Pike was less than six hours away, he’d reluctantly agreed and McCoy had re-enforced his directives by locking a biosensor on his wrist and ordering him transported via a hover chair, adding the humiliation of being paraded through the corridors as an invalid. He need not have worried though. McCoy had cleared the halls and personally guided the chair. Kirk tolerated all of this silently. His thoughts were narrowly focused on his upcoming meeting with Pike.

The Admiral was still recovering from the damage the slug had created and had only recently been making short excursions out of the mobile chair he’d been confined to for months. For him to have left Earth was a bad sign. Kirk had to fix this and fast. He was only too aware that he was being evaluated. There was a reason Starfleet Command had not allowed him more than six days from Earth and had restricted him from setting foot on planets. His assignments prior to this one had been scut work. This was his first real test as far as Command was concerned. They saw the Narada incident as pure luck. So he couldn’t help but wonder if his promotion to captain had more to do with his name than his ability.

By the time they entered his quarters he was already nodding off. He hated the weakness that seemed to attack him from nowhere. One moment he felt strong and alert, the next he was failing. As soon as the chair halted, he gathered his strength and rose, feeling the fever’s dull ache in every muscle in his body.

“No meetings or reports,” McCoy said, guiding the chair out of the way.

His back was to McCoy, but he could imagine the stern expression that said ‘Don’t try to bull shit me.’ But he didn’t care. He was out of Sickbay and in his own space. He took the moment to appreciate his quarters. Captain’s rank had its advantages in more ways than one. His quarters were divided into three areas: office, living and sleeping. Space on a starship was precious and any available nook was put to use, but captain’s quarters were always the largest – a long-standing tradition that went back to maritime, when explorers sailed the seas and not the stars. Despite the fact that he had no personal items in his quarters, it still felt like home. Maybe because it was his.

He pressed a hand to his belly, feeling a dull ache begin. Why was he so damn tired? Pike can’t see him this way. He stepped to his bed, only too aware that his gait was shuffling. Maybe if he sat down for a moment. What if Pike was disappointed in him? What if that was why the Admiral had left Earth? Or was Pike coming to take command?

He could imagine Command, sitting behind their high desks …

_“You better get control of this, Chris. He’s in over his head,” Komack says._

_“I thought he could do this,” Pike says, looking apologetic. “I guess I was wrong.”_

_“He’s not his father.”_

_Marcus chimes in with, “That’s obvious.”_

McCoy appeared with a tray. “Eat something.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed with barely concealed relief, he stared at the small tray of food. “I’m not hungry,” he said, looking away.

“It wasn’t a request.”

McCoy could be a real bastard when he wanted to. He set the tray down and crossed his arms. Kirk only looked at the tray, feeling himself pale.

“Later,” he said and lay down to curl on his side.

God, he was tired.

“Jim ….”

He closed his eyes.

He woke abruptly, his eyes snapping open, his body jerking. He was still lying on his side on the bed, a blanket thrown over him. The first thing he saw was the untouched tray of food. The lights had been dimmed and he was alone. Pushing up with his arms, he sat up swiftly, his side pulling painfully. He grunted as he swung his legs off the end of the bed.

Fuck, he’d fallen asleep. His head was pounding.

“Computer, time?”

_Current ship time is 0413._

Shit. He’d slept eight fucking hours. Pike was already on board. Sliding off the bed, he promptly collapsed to his knees with a grunt. The room spun and his vision darkened. It took a long few minutes to clear the grey and focus. He had just made it to his feet when the door to his quarters opened and McCoy walked through carrying his medical bag and looking as if he had all the time in the world.

“Why the hell didn’t you wake me?” he demanded angrily.

McCoy pulled up short for a mere second, missing a step before recovering. “You needed your rest.”

“Pike’s on board and I’m sleeping!” He moved, with more speed than he thought possible, toward his office, passing McCoy and feeling every ache and pinch in his body as it protested the abrupt movements.

“Relax,” McCoy said. “You’ve got a reprieve.”

He halted, his desk still a few steps away, and turned.

“Pike’s been delayed. The _Arlington_ is delivering emergency medical supplies to a carrier. He won’t be rendezvousing for another thirty-two hours.”

He stood rooted in place, feeling the hammering of his pulse and the shakiness in his legs.

“So sit down and relax before you fall down.”

He’d finally caught a damn break and it had come in the guise of a medical emergency. Just the Universe’s way of demonstrating its twisted humor. He moved to the sitting area and sank down on the cushions of the small sofa. He had more time to find Weston and figure out who had brought photons to instigate a war. He still had a chance to save this mission and prove himself to Pike.

McCoy followed him. “How are you feeling?”

“Relieved.” He pushed a hand through his hair and curled his spine, letting his shoulders slump. In truth he hurt a little, his muscles feeling stretched and fatigued, and his back and head ached. He needed another shower. He was constantly sticky with perspiration from the fever that caused his body to waver between hot and cold.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He closed his eyes, his hand still tangled in his hair. “Where the hell is he, Bones? It’s been five days. And why the hell aren’t the drones working? This planet is supposed to be Level One in development. A virtual paradise. Now they’re in the middle of a civil war someone funded.”

“First of all,” McCoy said, taking a seat next to him and setting down his medical bag, “no one says paradise anymore. Second, Weston is probably hiding, waiting for us to find him. And third, the photons aren’t your problem.”

His gaze snapped to McCoy. “They aren’t? Pike might disagree with that. He’s ordering us to find the source.”

“And don’t you think that’s a little strange?” McCoy leaned close and studied his tricorder which had appeared in his left hand.

“You think Pike knows something?” His middle began to hurt, protesting his awkward position.

“You mean do I think Pike is testing you? Why would I think a high-ranking officer in command would design an elaborate ordeal to test its command crew? Sit back.” McCoy pressed a hand to Kirk’s shoulder, forcing him back against the cushions, but keeping his eyes trained on the tricorder.

The new position eased the ache in his middle. Bones might have something. Throughout history the military has always tested its commanders, taking them through rigorous trials and purposefully misleading them for the sole purpose of evaluating their command abilities. It was entirely possible that Pike or Starfleet had sent him to this insignificant planet and mislead him to believe it was under development, while all the time knowing the true circumstances – like interference.

And there was the new assignment that had been rumored – the 5-year exploration to expand Federation territory and make new alliances. No one had mentioned a ship or commander, but _Enterprise_ was newly commissioned with the latest technologies. It would be a logical choice for such a mission. Maybe this was a test.

“Uh.” A sharp pain interrupted his thoughts. McCoy fingers were pressed into his side. “Damn it, Bones.” He pulled McCoy’s hand away. “You really think this is a test?”

McCoy set down the tricorder and opened his medical kit. “Pike’s leaving Earth and he’s not fully out of his mobile chair.” He plucked a hypo from his kit. With his other hand he fished out a colorful vial. “I think that’s a big deal … and I don’t think photons have anything to do with it.”

For a man who professed to know little about the military, McCoy had a shrewd, tactical mind. Clicking the vial into the hypo, he pressed it to Kirk’s bicep.

“What’s that for?”

“Your fever.” McCoy returned the hypo and retrieved a slender cylinder. “Give me your arm.”

Kirk looked at him, scowling.

“I need to draw some blood,” he said in an exasperated tone, and without waiting for Kirk to comply, gently took his arm.

A test? He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. “The Federation isn’t going to supply photons to a sovereign planet to test me.”

McCoy pressed the thin cylinder to the inside of his forearm and activated the device. “I didn’t say they were _supplying_ photons.”

 _Just using what was already there_. Now that he thought about it, it was odd that they were ordered to observe planet side after the _Anderson_ had done the preliminary survey. If this was a test, it was fucking brilliant.

_‘”This is the chance you’ve wanted,” Pike said. “This is what being a Starship Captain is about.”_

Bones had told him that Pike had shown an interest in his medical report, demanding updates and diagnosis. Could Pike be feeling guilty?

“You need to eat.” McCoy’s voice cut through his drifting thoughts. He focused on the tray of food in front of him. McCoy must have retrieved it from his bedside table.

With a soft sigh, he picked up the small sandwich. He needed to read the reports.

* * *

 

He’d eaten, but Bones had still given him two more hypos before leaving. The food, or the hypos, had rallied him somewhat, enough for him to review the details of the reports Spock had been sending to Starfleet. He’d read with frustration as the events unfolded and saw, for the first time, how Pike had been informed about the mission. Spock, ever thorough in his reporting, had gone into personal details about Kirk’s injuries and their secluded time on the planet. He cringed as he read the words _unconscious_ and _barely coherent_. With a huff, he switched off the viewer and looked around his quarters, imagining what Pike must be thinking. He hadn’t even viewed Bones’s report, which no doubt only added color around his misery.

Christ, he looked incompetent.

_“Captains don’t have the luxury of being sick.” Pike stared down at him._

_He was flat on his back, seeing stars. He’d been fighting off a virus and gotten dizzy and fallen from the catwalk during maneuvers. Someone, Kirk didn’t know who, had summoned medical and stopped the exercise. Judging from the look on Pike’s face, it hadn’t been Pike. Medics waited impatiently just behind him. They were on training exercises as well, and looked overly zealous to get their hands on Kirk._

_“You can’t lead from that position.”_

The memory of that humiliating conversation burned into Kirk’s mind, flaming his cheeks. Suddenly restless, he stood and knew what he needed to do. After a long shower and a change into a fresh uniform, he called Spock to his quarters.

“Doctor McCoy has ordered that you not be disturbed.” Spock stood just inside the threshold, hands folded behind his back and looking as uncomfortable as a Vulcan could.

“I outrank him.” Kirk moved out of his living area toward his office. The few times he’d had Spock in his quarters, the Vulcan had always seemed uncomfortable going beyond the office partition, stopping to stand stiffly before the private living area, as if Jim had his dirty underwear hanging over chairs or something equally intimate.  “Have a seat, Commander.”

Spock took the extra step needed for the automatic doors to close behind him. The silence in the small space seemed painful, as if they had both stepped into a vacuum. Kirk sank into the chair behind his desk and waited for Spock to comply.

Why the hell was Spock so nervous? The man had had his hands in Kirk’s guts, had seen him in pain, and _this_ he finds uncomfortable? Or was he really concerned about McCoy’s wrath? If that was the case then he needed to have a conversation with McCoy and discover his secret. Spock had never disobeyed an order from him, but he sure made an argument out of everything.

After a moment, Spock gracefully folded himself into the chair opposite Kirk. With his hands resting flatly on his legs, he stared unblinkingly at Kirk.

Well, hell.

“Report.”

“The drones have failed to return any viable data. All attempts to extract information from their database have proven futile. Lt. Uhura’s analysis of the planet’s transmissions has also revealed nothing significant.”

“Define significant?” He rested his spine against the soft cushion of his chair. For the first time since waking up, his head didn’t hurt.

Spock tilted his head. “The indigenous species language is complex, but identifiable. The Lieutenant believes the communication is limited to cultural events.”

“Like the civil war?”

“Precisely.”

And the battle had ended days ago, with no further signs of continuing the engagement, which made him think it was planned, strategic. Despite the fact that they had been caught in the middle of it, the battle had felt rehearsed. He frowned. “Both sides were equipped with photons.”

“Yes.”

He stared at Spock. “Why level the playing field if you’re funding a war?”

“If we knew who had supplied the native population with photons, I would be able to better answer that, Captain.”

He hesitated. His memory flashed: Spock beaming onto the Narada with him, melding with the Romulan and plotting the demise of Nero. Despite Spock’s rigid boundaries, he could bend rules when he needed. And, Kirk suspected, some part of him liked playing the rebel. Would he play now? “What if it’s us?”

A single eyebrow raised into the immaculate bangs. “You mean the Federation?”

He swallowed. “I mean Starfleet.”

There was a slight shift in the muscles of Spock’s face – eyebrows raised a fraction, the corners of his mouth tugged negligibly – just enough for Kirk to see the amusement. “What purpose would Starfleet have in supplying advance weaponry to a sovereign planet?”

He shifted in his chair. “Not supplying, Spock. _Using_.”

For the next hour Kirk defended his reasoning, while Spock took every opportunity to logically point out his faulty thinking.

“You’re not even considering the possibilities,” Kirk accused. His headache was back in full swing.

“I have considered them and logically ruled them out.”

Kirk pushed up from his chair and stood. Spock had barely moved in the past hour, countering Kirk’s arguments with monotone, controlled responses that made Kirk feel like a two year old being scolded by his parent. “That’s your problem. There’s nothing logical about what Starfleet is doing.”

He realized the room was hot and his uniform stuck uncomfortably to him. Tugging impatiently at his collar, he said, “Computer, lower room temperature two degrees.”

_Complying._

Well, at least something on his ship was listening to him. He began to pace the small area around his desk. “We’ve gotta figure this out. Pike’s going to be here in less than twenty eight hours.”

_I need your help._

“I would advise against approaching Admiral Pike with your theory,” Spock said.

He stopped pacing and looked at Spock. “I’m not an idiot, Spock. We’re rats, and rats don’t let the lab tech know they’re being studied.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, letting out a pent up breath. “It ruins the experiment.”

“Regardless, I would rec—”

Suddenly, the doors to his quarters slid open and McCoy marched in. “Damn it, Jim. I said no visitors!”

Spock smoothly stood and faced McCoy. Kirk had to give him credit; the Vulcan looked as innocent as a Vulcan could look. McCoy looked pissed.

“Out!” McCoy said, jabbing a finger at Spock. “And you,” he said turning his attention to Kirk, “Sickbay.”

Kirk bristled and focused on Spock. “I want the transmissions Uhura’s been monitoring.”

“Send them to Sickbay,” McCoy added without looking at Spock.

Yeah, McCoy was pissed.

“I _was_ resting,” Kirk argued as Spock left, as if somehow he was going to be able to win this argument.

McCoy stared at him nonplussed. Closing the distance between them, he reached out and grasped Kirk’s left wrist, raising the biosensor he’d had locked in place. “Your vitals say otherwise.”

Shit.

“Fine. I’ll rest.” He started to move toward his sleeping area, but McCoy grasped his bicep.

“Not so fast. I said Sickbay.”

He pulled back from McCoy’s grip, irritated. “What for?”

If there was one thing McCoy hated, it was to explain himself. It was the whole ‘I am a doctor’ god complex, Kirk figured. His lips tightened into a thin line and he straightened his spine. “Do I have to keep reminding you that you’re sick? Your blood results are showing activity from the parasite. I want to do another round of treatment.” He crossed his arms. “Unless you’d like to be flat on your back when Pike arrives because it’s gone untreated?”

He sighed. The muscles in his neck were tightening. He hated Sickbay. Once Bones got him there it was going to be hell trying to get out again. But he couldn’t argue the reasoning. He wanted to be on his feet and alert when Pike arrived. He looked at McCoy, seeing his friend’s uncompromising expression and reluctantly nodded.


	7. Chapter 7

McCoy monitored Jim’s treatment from the foot of the bed. The Lionide IV drip hung just above his head, the port inserted into his hand and a special blood monitoring device inserted subcutaneously just below his elbow of the opposite arm.

“How long is this going to take?” Jim asked, moving restlessly. He was reclined at a forty-degree angle. Dressed in a medical gown, a warm blanket thrown over him, and still he was shivering.

“About an hour.” He had a PADD in his hands that transmitted data from the monitoring devices and was synced up with the main diagnostic panel over Jim’s head. The influx of data raced past the screen on his PADD, but he still had noted Jim’s shivering. “Just relax. It’ll go quicker.”

“How am I supposed to relax when I’m a human pin cushion?”

McCoy ignored the remark and returned his attention to the PADD. The parasite had predictably run its cycle and was becoming active. He hoped that by treating it with an aggressive round of the old regime, they might be able to finally rid Jim of the parasite.

“Why do I have to do this in Sickbay?” A faint flush colored his cheeks. His heart rate was elevated.

McCoy looked up from the PADD. He’d answered this question once already when Jim had made a demanding stand to remain in his command gold as if he were coming in for a simple vaccination. The last time Jim had the treatment, he’ been sick with fever and chills, so he no doubt didn’t remember the adverse effects of the Lionide. “I need to monitor you,” he said simply.

Jim snorted and looked away.

McCoy remained near his bed during the first part of the treatment and Jim had remained silent, dozing occasionally. Half way through the treatment, the nausea rose. Jim began to get restless, his respirations increasing.

“Take a few deep breaths,” he said soothingly, offering a cooling cloth to Jim’s flushed face.

Jim irritably batted it away. “I am breathing.”

McCoy lowered the bed a few degrees. “The medication may be causing nausea. Try to rest a bit.”

But ten minutes later Jim’s stomach convulsed and he emptied its contents into the strategically placed basin by the bed. McCoy supported him as he retched then fell back onto the cushions exhausted, his eyes closing.

“I can give you something for the nausea once the IV is complete,” McCoy said, wiping Jim’s face.

“Terrific.”

He vomited twice more before the IV emptied, continually pushing away McCoy’s comfort. McCoy resigned himself to the role of spectator, focusing on the results of the treatment and offering Jim an occasional word or two of support. As promised, once the IV was complete, McCoy delivered a dose of antiemetic, but Jim barely registered it. Within minutes he was asleep and finally still beneath the white blanket.

McCoy breathed a sigh of relief at his friend’s stillness and began a more rigorous study of the treatment results, sending the lab instructions. After that, he had to wait.

M’Benga entered the private area a few hours later with a PADD. “How’s he doing?” he asked, motioning to the sleeping man.

Jim hadn’t moved in over an hour. “Resting.”

“You gave him another round of platelets.”

The small IV hung independently from the thin pole.

“You have the labs?” McCoy asked, reaching for the PADD.

M’Benga winced. “Results were marginal. Parasite is still active.”

“Damn it,” he muttered, scanning the results.

“Maybe something more long term,” the other doctor suggested.

He was speaking about the experimental treatment. The medication would attack the microorganisms over a period of time, reducing their procreation and, with any luck, killing the cycle.

“If it works, it will free the Captain of the parasite for good,” M’Benga said as if to sweeten the deal.

“And if doesn’t it could make him sicker.”

“Or it may do nothing at all.”

McCoy let out a pent up breath. “We need a hell of a lot of luck for that.”

“Rather be lucky than good.” M’Benga’s eyes twinkled.

It was an old surgical saying, going back centuries. Any cutter worth their salt knew that medicine only did so much, that anything could go south quickly and with very little provocation. A surgeon learned to rely on a good portion of luck to see him through.

They had two choices: Do another round of the Lionide and hope for better results, or try the experimental drug and hope for a cure.

In the end, he decided on the experimental drug. The science was sound and in theory it should work. It also didn’t have the side-effects of the Lionide and would be easier on Jim in the long run. McCoy was the one who told Jim when he woke up.

“We can’t start for another ten hours,” he finally told Jim after a lengthy conversation.

“Why not?” Jim had been scowling through the entire conversation.

“Because I want the Lionide out of your system as much as possible before I introduce a new drug.” He paused. “With any luck you’ll be on your feet before Pike arrives.”

“Luck,” Jim said bitterly. “We haven’t had any fucking luck since this mission began.”

He remained silent. There wasn’t anything else he could offer Jim that would make this better. A high-ranking Admiral was about to board _Enterprise_ and get a firsthand report of the mission. Admirals don’t visit starships without a damn good reason.

“How long am I going to have to stay after that?” It sounded more like a demand than a question.

He was tired and frustrated. He had to answer to Pike, as well, and their conversations had not been pleasant. Jim’s petulance was wearing thin. “Long enough for me to be convinced you’re not at risk.” His tone was sharper than he intended, but he didn’t apologize.  “You’re going to be in Sickbay until then.”

Jim relied mostly on his charm to get what he wanted. Even in a bar fight, McCoy had seen him smile. Maybe it was to unbalance his opponent or maybe it was just because he was having fun. There were only a few times that McCoy had seen him angry. He saw it now, just beneath the pale features. Not rage, but definite anger that brewed for release. He braced himself for a fight, but in an instant it seemed to disappear.

“Fine. Then I want to listen to the transmissions.”

“As long as you do it in bed, I have no objections.”

Jim turned away, his jaw tight.

* * *

 

Kirk stood just outside Shuttle Bay One and waited for the all-clear signal.  Pike’s shuttle craft had docked seconds ago. Spock waited next to him. He couldn’t help but feel like a first year cadet right before inspection. He glanced at Spock and nervously ran a tongue over his lips. A thin film of perspiration made his uniform cling uncomfortably to him.

Though McCoy had allowed him to retire to his quarters last night (and thankfully relinquish the biosensor), it had not been restful. His body seemed to be like a live wire, refusing to rest. His skin itched and his muscles twitched. After hours of tossing in his bed, he’d finally given up, finding comfort in pacing. It had done nothing to alleviate his headache. Strangely enough, he wasn’t tired. In fact, it felt as if his body had a sudden surge of energy.

Maybe McCoy’s treatment had worked after all.

The green light flashed.

He shifted his weight, feeling a tremor go through him. His palms were sweaty and he hoped he didn’t look nervous. He had plenty to be nervous about. The investigation had produced nothing. Weston was still lost and they were no closer to having answers. Taking a measured breath, he willed his body to calm. The tension was making his back and head hurt and the last thing he needed was to feel sick. He’d been up against Pike before and he knew from experience that he needed all his wits and more if he was going to come out of this looking good.

The door swished open.

Pike was in his mobile chair, an assistant standing silently beside him. He wasn’t the pilot of the shuttle craft. He wore a Starfleet Command uniform. Pike stared up at Kirk with a critical and penetrating gaze. Despite being in a chair, the Admiral commanded a great deal of personal power.

Kirk took this all in with a single glance.

“Admiral,” he said. “Welcome on board the _Enterprise_.”

“Thank you,” Pike said slowly. After a long moment, he broke his gaze with Kirk to connect with Spock. “Commander. Good to see you again.”

“And you, Admiral.”

Pike was relaxed and in command, a position that made Kirk uncomfortable. But how else was he supposed to be? He was the Admiral, this had been his ship and Kirk had been his student. He turned his attention back to Kirk and his expression softened. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Pike had been stopped at the door and Kirk didn’t realize that he had blocked the corridor with his body, creating a slight breach of protocol.

“Of course.” He stepped aside, feeling his cheeks flush. A soft buzzing began in his head. “We have Briefing One prepared.”

They moved down the corridor as a unified group with the exception of the assistant who kept a discreet distance behind the Admiral. The heels of Kirk’s feet were dragging and the energy that he’d enjoyed was suddenly flagging.

“How are you feeling?” Pike asked, glancing up at him as they approached the turbo lift.

“Fine, Admiral,” he said casually and straightened a little more. He knew he was pale and thin, but at least he was walking under his own power.

The turbo lift doors opened and they entered. A wave of dizziness struck Kirk. He leaned a hand on the wall to balance himself. Pike was looking elsewhere, but it was clear that Spock had seen. The sharp Vulcan eyes focused on him with an almost predatory-like precision. Kirk pointedly looked away, but kept a hand on the wall until he was certain the vertigo had passed.

What the fuck?

His head was pounding in earnest and he wondered if maybe he should have eaten this morning. But it was more than his head. He felt … off.

The doors swished open and they were moving again. His steps were strong and determined. The click of the heels on the deck was like the hammering of an anvil in his ears. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back. He was leading the entourage, but his vision had become blurry, like looking through a rain-doused window.

“Captain,” Spock said.

He stopped and turned. His heart was racing.

Spock stood a few meters from him. “Did you not order the conference to be in Briefing One?”

Frowning, he tried to focus on Spock. Then it hit him – he’d passed Briefing One. “Yes, Commander. Thank you.” He smiled quickly. “My mind was elsewhere.”

If Spock recognized his lie, he kept it to himself.

Kirk backtracked and entered the room. Briefing One was not particularly large. A long table dominated the room, as did a view screen that spanned the length of the west wall. Uhura was already seated. As they took their places around the table, he noticed Pike had taken the command position, forcing him to move to the left. Spock sat near Uhura and the computer console, opposite Kirk.

His body was shaking now and he lowered his arms to hide the obvious tremors. He nodded to Spock, not trusting his voice.

“As you know, Admiral, our initial findings regarding the native—”

The doors swished open and the steady click of boots filled the room.

“Sorry I’m late,” McCoy said and took a strategic seat next to Kirk.

Kirk frowned and glared at McCoy. He hadn’t invited the doctor to this briefing.

“May I continue?” Spock asked.

Kirk nodded again and stared at Spock. His head buzzed and the lights were too bright. The view screen suddenly came to life as Spock called up Enterprise’s preliminary scans.  His heart pounded and he tried to slow his breathing and not look at McCoy, who was studying him out of the corner of his eye.

_Focus on the screen._

His skin felt stretched and thin like onion paper that had been processed too long. His uniform stuck to him as a fresh layer of perspiration wept from every pore. Why was this room so damn hot? Sam always kept the windows closed because he hated the smell of the fields, the old dust that seemed never to move. Kirk liked the sound of the wind. It muffled Frank’s snoring.

“Captain?” Spock asked.

He turned to look at Spock. Had he said something?

“Are you well, Captain?”

He smiled – practiced, automatic. “I’m fine. Continue.”

Pike shifted his gaze to him, but remained silent and watchful. From Kirk’s left side he could feel McCoy’s penetrating gaze. He tried not to squirm.

Spock continued and the view screen changed. Scenes of the planet from the first probes played across the screen – peaceful landscapes and thick flora. This was supposed to be a cakewalk. His thoughts drifted again and it was all he could do to remain seated. He moved restlessly in his chair, trying to escape the discomfort of his skin. God, he was hot.

“You were able to decipher their language, Lieutenant?” Pike asked of Uhura.

“Partially. It’s much like Orion.”

Gaila. He missed her.

He tried to focus on the screen, but his vision wouldn’t cooperate. He’d given up trying to listen to Spock. The sound of his blood rushing through his veins all but deafened him. It sounded like the artillery on the planet, the hum and pump of the photons.

A sharp tug caught his side.

They’d shot him … and he wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He was on his feet before he realized it, staggering slightly. His legs felt like overworked leather. The room tipped, but he remained standing, his knees locked. The world around him was out of focus, but one thought cut through the chaos of his mind. “We’re not supposed to be here.”

He wasn’t sure if the words had actually passed his lips. His throat felt parched and tight.

Spock stood smoothly, his expression guarded. “Captain?”

There were moments in his mind when everything coalesced into startling clarity. He’d had that moment months earlier when he awoke from Bones’s sedative and _Enterprise_ was soaring into a Nero’s trap. And he had it now.

“Doctor….” Pike began.

He didn’t feel his body hit the deck, but the next thing he knew, he was staring up at the ceiling. An instant later Bones’s face came into view. He was scowling and his mouth was moving, but Kirk couldn’t hear anything. Somewhere off to his right was Pike and there were muffled shouts in the distance. None of it seemed to have anything to do with him.

Fire photons.

His body was paralyzed and on fire, the thin skin finally broken and torn. There was a sharp sting at his neck. He should be concerned, he thought, that he was lying on the deck paralyzed with Admiral Pike watching his meltdown. But he could barely register the thought. His vision began to fade and he struggled to breathe, as if his lungs had suddenly shrunk. He felt his body being jostled. But he didn’t care. He knew why the planet had photons … and he knew where Weston was hiding.


	8. Chapter 8

McCoy had lost track of time, but it had seemed hours since they had rushed Jim from the briefing room into Sickbay, hours of trying to stabilize his fluctuating vitals and counteract the unexpected reaction the microorganisms were having to the medication.

“Do you want another blood draw, Doctor,” Nurse Trevel asked. She stood on the right side of the bed, near Jim’s head.

He shook his head curtly. The privacy curtain was not drawn in place and he felt strangely exposed in the open area. He hated treating patients without offering them a modicum of privacy – starships were not designed for discretion – but the curtain closed off the room and they needed the space for extra equipment and personnel. He didn’t have the luxury of giving Jim any privacy, and so the man had lain vulnerable and exposed to everyone who walked into Sickbay, including Pike.

Pike had followed closely behind the medical team, entering Sickbay just as they had stripped Jim, and McCoy was inserting a central line at his clavicle. While the Admiral tried to keep out of the way, his presence was felt and he was not a silent observer. He fired a barrage of questions at McCoy during the lull in treatments.

“What the hell happened?” Pike had demanded. His normally disciplined features had been pinched with concern. He had gotten out of his mobile chair to stand by the side of the bed. Jim was pale and breathing rapidly. “I thought you said the treatment was working.”

“It is working,” McCoy had said tightly as he hung a unit of blood. “The microorganisms are dying. They’re just putting up one hell of a fight.”

Jim’s red blood cell count had plummeted, putting him in tachycardia. They were pumping in fresh blood as quickly as they could to compensate, as well as medication to slow his heart rate. It had stabilized him for a while, until they had noticed fluid that was building up in the lungs.

“Administer 15 mg of Diapox IV push, then hang a drip of 20 mg. per hour,” he ordered the nurse, hoping the diuretic would reduce the fluid. As she moved to comply, he looked at his friend and tightened his grip on the small scanner he held. An oxygen mask covered Jim’s mouth, but he could still hear the desperate wheezing. Jim was fighting for each breath, despite McCoy’s prescribed treatments. He placed the small scanner over Jim’s lungs and listened. The distinct sound of fluid greeted his ears.

“His temperature is up,” M’Benga noted. He had suddenly appeared next to McCoy.

“I know,” McCoy said heavily, removing the scanner and straightening away from Jim.

“Fluid,” M’Benga said.

“Yeah.”  It was what they had been hoping to avoid. Jim’s heart was pumping too rapidly in response to the low red blood count, trying to delivery much-needed oxygen throughout Jim’s system. The higher blood volume was causing the lungs to produce fluid in an effort to balance the pulmonary system.

McCoy glanced over at the corner.

“He left,” M’Benga said of Pike. “A few hours ago.”

McCoy nodded. “He’ll be back.” Demanding a report and an update, answers McCoy probably didn’t have. He looked down at Jim. A slight flush dotted the pale cheeks. “I should have kept him in Sickbay last night.”

M’Benga studied him for a moment. “You couldn’t have known, Leonard.”

That was true of almost every situation, but he was the CMO and the Captain was his primary responsibility.

“The treatment’s working,” M’Benga reminded him. “It’s just a balancing act now.”

Yes, hoping the treatment didn’t kill Jim before the parasite did. Jim’s system was already weak and the fever wasn’t helping.

“Doctor.” Spock stood a meter or two from the foot of the bed. His posture was rigid and straight, as if he were being presented for inspection.

“What do you want, Spock?” McCoy asked in a tone that was more tired than irritated.

M’Benga excused himself and Spock moved closer to the bed, but kept his focus on McCoy.

“I need an update on the Captain’s condition.”

Jim’s wheezing filled the area. It was all McCoy could do not to wince as he looked down at his patient. Even though Jim was covered with a blanket, he could still see the frantic rise and fall of Jim’s chest. “His red blood cell count is low. We’re giving him blood and medications to control the tachycardia.”

“You have a prognosis?”

He turned to look at Spock. “This isn’t an exact science. The human body is full of surprises. Jim’s in particular. He has fluid building up in his lungs and his heart is beginning to weaken. We’re trying to treat symptoms as they arise and with any luck the parasite will diminish enough for the blood replacement to do its job, hopefully before he develops pneumonia.”

Which wasn’t looking too promising.

“I understand the fundamentals of diagnosing, Doctor.”

“Then why did you ask?” He turned away from Spock as the panel beeped a warning. Jim’s O2 sat was dropping. With a deft movement, he adjusted the oxygen flow. Another unit of blood was almost complete. Jim still needed another unit of packed cells.

“Has he been conscious?”

Something in Spock’s tone caught his attention. He turned and saw Spock looking at Jim for the first time with an expression of uncertainty.

“Barely.” Jim had been drifting in and out, not coherent and scarcely mumbling. It was enough for him to concentrate on getting the oxygen he craved.

McCoy studied Spock, wondering what the Vulcan was thinking. Not all Vulcan, he reminded himself, half-human. What influence had his human mother had on him? McCoy could clearly see Sarek’s influence, and to be fair, he’d never met Amanda. She’d died on Vulcan, just out of reach of Spock.

“You never loved her,” Jim had accused on the bridge. And Spock had launched into a homicidal rage. He would have killed Jim if Sarek hadn’t intervened. But was that human emotion, or Vulcan?

“Vulcans have emotions, Doctor,” Sarek had told him on their journey back to Earth. “Even greater than humans.”

 McCoy was doubtful, but Jim would have never returned from the planet if it hadn’t been for Spock, and that counted for something. The stoic and disciplined First Officer had used all his skills to keep Jim alive, and McCoy had to wonder what that had cost him.

“Vulcans find intense emotions mentally uncomfortable,” Sarek had said. “We are touch telepaths, but it is more the emotions than thoughts that transfer.”

He knew the extent of Jim’s injuries at that time, the pain Jim must have felt. How had Spock tolerated it? He watched Spock watching Jim struggle for breath. The dark eyes were hooded.

_What the hell are you thinking?_

_Say something. Say you want to stay._

Spock’s eyes lifted and returned to McCoy. “Admiral Pike will want a full update.”

McCoy nodded slowly, his eyes still locked on to Spock’s. Suddenly he didn’t want Spock to leave, not for him, but for Jim, who seemed to place some strange importance on his relationship with Spock. “You can stay.”

It was a soft invitation with as little emotion around it as possible.

Spock hesitated then looked at Jim. “It would not be wise,” he said quietly.

McCoy scowled. What the hell did that mean?

Before he could question Spock, the Vulcan turned and left. He sighed and looked down at Jim – pale and unconscious. Maybe it was better this way. Bad enough Pike had become an audience to Jim’s misery.

Nurses came and went. McCoy ran scans every hour, worrying over the results. There was little to do but wait and see if the medication was going to work. Jim’s fever rose again. He had become restless now and was still wheezing for air. The crit count was still low and McCoy had to adjust the diuretic again, trying to find the balance that offered Jim some comfort and kept the pneumonia at bay.

The medical staff changed with the shifts, but McCoy stayed at Jim’s side, waiting for that miracle or indelible Kirk spirit that broke all the rules by surviving the impossible not with humility and grace, but arrogance and pride.

“You look like hell,” Jim would say, then order him to get some sleep.

He smiled at the thought and studied Jim. The panel above Jim’s head told a critical story. The indicators were yellow and McCoy had been having a hell of a time trying to stabilize Jim’s vitals. He was still wheezing for air as he had been for hours.

McCoy rubbed his eyes, feeling the tension along his neck. God it felt good to close his eyes, to just rest them for a moment, to not think. Looking around, he saw the chair by the bed and lowered his aching body into it. He never intended to close his eyes.

He’d always been a light sleeper. In residency he’d developed a reputation as a peripheral sleeper – having the uncanny ability to know when something had happened while he slept. As he opened his eyes, he knew instantly that someone was in the room with Jim. Not yet fully alert, his eyes struggled to focus on the figure at the side of the bed. He’d expected Pike, maybe Uhura to make a presence. But he wasn’t expecting to see Spock.

Spock stood silent and still by the bedside, staring at Jim as if studying a rare artifact. Jim’s eyes were closed, his hair damp with fever. There was some part of McCoy that wanted to get up, but he was so damn tired … and Spock was there. Whatever he thought of the Vulcan, Spock wouldn’t let anything happen to Jim. His eyes drifted close.

The sound of coughing woke him. In an instant his eyes opened and his body tensed. The panel alarm sounded. He rose with more speed than he gave himself credit for. Jim was coughing – a heavy, wet cough. A nurse appeared on the opposite side of the bed. He noticed that Spock was no longer in the room and wondered how much time had passed.

“It’s okay,” McCoy said, quickly assessing the situation. He elevated the bed and placed a supporting hand to Jim’s chest. Once the cough subsided, he reached for his scanner and pressed it to the side of Jim’s chest. The lungs sounded a bit more congested than before.

Pneumonia.

Goddamn it. He straightened and adjusted the Diapox and studied the overhead monitor. Jim’s vitals were showing some improvement. His kidneys were functioning and his heart rate had leveled out. But the fluid had settled in his lungs.

“How is he?”

Pike’s voice startled him. He turned from the panel with a frown, wondering just how much he wanted to tell Pike. “Holding his own. For now.”

Pike had left his chair a meter away and was making his way with an exaggerated limp toward the bed, using the edge of the bed for support. “He’s a fighter.”

McCoy could see the pain on Pike’s face. He wondered how much sleep the Admiral had gotten since coming on board. The physician in him wanted to order him back into the chair, but instead he watched, fingering the small scanner in his hands while he waited to see what Pike would do next.

Pike stopped just near the head of the bed, looking down at Jim the way a father would look at his son. The sudden emotion so clearly shown on the other man’s face stunned McCoy. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but the raw affection was not it. McCoy had always suspected that Jim had charmed Pike, that Pike saw something in Jim that he’d seen in himself, or maybe it was a little hero worship on Pike’s part – Jim being the son of the famous George Kirk. McCoy now understood that Pike had given Jim his ship, not because he’d liked and admired him, but because he’d loved him.

Pike looked at McCoy. “He is going to beat this, isn’t he?”

“The parasite is diminishing, but … he has pneumonia.” He could see from the expression on Pike’s face that he understood what that meant. “That’s a complication we were hoping to avoid.”

Pike dropped his gaze to Jim. “He doesn’t make anything easy, does he?”

McCoy’s eyebrows twitched. If the situation were not so grave, he might have found some humor in Pike’s observation.  Hell, he’d made the same observation himself, not too long ago. But with Jim still struggling to breath and the prognosis uncertain, he found little humor in any of it. All he could do was stand tight-lipped and watch Pike.

A soft sound came from the bed, drawing McCoy’s attention. Jim’s eyes opened partially. The electric blue that always seemed to captivate people was dull and watery. He struggled to focus and orient himself as McCoy came to stand on the opposite side of the bed. Jim mumbled something into the mask, his words weak and distorted, but before McCoy could offer any words of comfort, Pike spoke.

“It’s all right, son.”

Jim reached for him with a clumsy grasp, fingers only grazing the Admiral’s sleeve. Pike captured the hand, still focused on Jim. “Don’t speak.”

A rumbling cough filled the air followed by a long space of desperate wheezing. Once Jim got his breath, he spoke again and this time McCoy realized it wasn’t the mask distorting the words, but that Jim was speaking in another language. “What is that?”

“Orion,” Pike said without looking away. “Get Uhura down here. Now.”

McCoy spoke softly to Pike. “Admiral, his fever is high and he’s confused. I wouldn’t place too much stock in what he says.”

“He knows what he’s saying.” Pike looked at him and all traces of humor and affection were gone, replaced with an intensity he’d only seen once. “Get Uhura.”

McCoy had delivered two hypos to Jim before Uhura, followed closely by Spock, had entered Sickbay. Jim’s cough subsided only marginally and he’d been drifting in and out, speaking Orion in brief moments of lucidity. All the while Pike remained holding Jim’s hand, trying to keep the younger man calm, but not engaged. Jim’s agitation had aggravated his cough and McCoy was hoping his hypos had suppressed some of the urge, but he knew he would soon have to drain Jim’s lungs to keep him from drowning in his own fluids.

“Admiral,” Uhura said from the foot of the bed.

Pike turned to her. “You speak Orion?”

“Fluently, sir.”

Pike motioned with his head. “Come up here.”

Uhura looked at Jim whose eyes had closed. She hesitated and looked at McCoy with uncertainty before saying, “Yes, sir.”

Spock remained at the foot of the bed as Uhura stepped past McCoy to stand on the opposite side of Pike.

“Jim,” Pike said, bending close to Jim.

When there was no response, Pike squeezed Jim’s hand and shook it slightly. “Jim.”

The eyes fluttered and opened. Jim shifted restlessly, coughing weakly into the mask. The panel above his head flashed an orange signal. McCoy’s loaded another hypo.

“What do you want to tell me?” Pike asked.

McCoy could see Jim was struggling to focus, pulled out of a fevered sleep. He drew shallow breaths until something seemed to click. His brows drew together in a deep frown as his eyes sharpened. With a clumsy move, he reached for the oxygen mask. McCoy took a step closer, but Pike was faster, reaching up to stop Jim.

“You have to leave that on. What do you want to tell me, son?”

A few more shallow breaths. The rumble in his chest ignited again, but he made an effort to suppress it and rolled his head slightly to focus on Uhura. He spoke weakly and she had to lean close to hear.

She frowned and responded in a soft voice in fluent Orion.

It took Jim a full minute to answer. The effort cost him another coughing fit. As his chest wheezed and sputtered, the panel sounded an alarm. In an instant, McCoy was pushing Uhura aside and injecting the hypo quickly into Jim’s neck. Two more nurses entered and Pike relinquished his position as the team swarmed around Jim whose hand pressed tightly to his chest as if by sheer will he might stop the painful spasms.

“Tri-ox,” McCoy ordered in a sharp tone. He placed a hand to Jim’s chest to keep him from rising or curling into himself. Looking at the panel he swore. There was too much fluid in Jim’s lungs. He delivered the hypo with expertise.

Another warning sounded and M’Benga entered.

“Prepare OR 2,” McCoy told M’Benga. “We’re going to have to drain his lungs.”

“That’s risky,” the other doctor said.

McCoy nodded. Damn risky, but he had no choice. As M’Benga complied, McCoy adjusted the oxygen flow, trying to give Jim some relief. The Tri-ox would only do so much. They had to clear Jim’s lungs.

Slowly the cough ebbed and Jim fell into unconsciousness. McCoy kept his hand on his friend’s chest, monitoring the panel. They had to move quickly. He became aware of the others at the foot of the bed, a small unwelcomed audience and witness to Jim’s disintegration. The nurses were already disconnecting the bed and preparing Jim for the short journey to OR.

“Is he all right?” Pike asked. He had one hand on Uhura for balance.

McCoy bit back a sharp reply. He couldn’t blame Pike for Jim’s condition, but talking hadn’t helped. Swallowing past his irritation, he spoke as a surgeon would to family members, because … well, they were like family to Jim. “There’s too much fluid building up in his lungs. He’s too weak to expel it. We’re taking him into surgery to drain them. If he comes through that all right, he’s got a good chance to make a full recovery.”

Pike absorbed McCoy’s words before nodding and turning to Uhura. “What did he say?”

She’d been watching Jim with an expression of sorrow, as if she regretted seeing him suffering. Turning to the Admiral, she composed herself. “Just numbers, sir.”

“Numbers?”

“Yes, a series of numbers and something about the transmissions. I couldn’t understand all of it.”

McCoy stayed with Jim as the bed slid out from the wall. The mass of equipment moved with them as they guided the bed past the group. McCoy was already reviewing his surgical plan, weighing his options and methods. The conversation with Uhura and Pike drifted into the background. The final words he heard as the doors to the surgical suite closed were those of Spock.

“Those are coordinates.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

He was thinking of Gaila, who’d taught him to speak Orion. Learning the language had been a ruse to get close to the high-spirited cadet. He’d heard talk on the docks about Orion women, how they were sexually uninhibited and knew secret pleasures that could make a man forget his name. Gaila had been eager to teach him more than just her language. He’d liked the soft sounds she’d made when he’d kissed her, and how responsive her body had been to his touch. They’d always had fun together. But Gaila had died along with every officer and crew member on the _Farragut_. There hadn’t been a body to send home. Only her personal effects and a medal given posthumously, all neatly boxed up with her name and serial number.

He missed her.

Hands soothed him as he fought his way up from the foggy depths of dark memories.

“Take it easy, son.”

“Gaila.” The word was garbled and distorted, but he could smell her unique scent and somewhere in his mind he heard her singing, a soft angelic tone she’d only used when she wanted him to follow.

“I think he’s waking up.”

He tried to open his eyes, but they felt stuck together and impossible to move. It hurt to breathe. His chest felt heavy and tight and it took all his energy to draw in air.

_“I think I love you, Jim.”_

“Jim.”

He knew the voice, the low command that dared him to do better. He drew away from it as the pain in his chest increased.

“He needs his rest, Admiral. It was a long procedure.”

The soothing touch moved away, leaving coolness that made him shiver. There was something he needed to do, some place he needed to be, but it all eluded him. All he heard was Gaila singing. It followed him into the uneasy darkness.

 

McCoy compressed his lips as he watched Jim sink into unconsciousness.  Within seconds his vitals leveled off and soon McCoy breathed a sigh of relief. Jim’s left lung had collapsed during surgery. As he had rushed to drain the fluid and inflate the lung, Jim had gone into cardiac arrest.

“Is he okay?” Pike asked, scanning the overhead panel as if it might tell him something.

“He’s asleep.” He moved to retrieve Jim’s chart, feeling a pull in the muscles along his spine.

Pike nodded, dropping his gaze to Kirk. “I didn’t mean to wake him.”

McCoy glanced briefly at him. “You didn’t.”

Silence.

“He is an enigma, isn’t he?” Pike said, still staring at Kirk. “I never know exactly what’s going on in his head. Sometimes I think he doesn’t either.”

McCoy smiled at that, focused on making notes on the chart. While he’d been in surgery with Jim, Pike and Spock had scrambled to interpret Jim’s ramblings. It was Uhura who had found the code in the transmissions. Weston, they presumed, was sending an old fashion S.O.S. on a disabled comm line. It was actually quite brilliant. He had no idea how Jim had figured it out, or why he had communicated it all in Orion.

“He’s going to be all right?” Pike asked.

 Without looking up, he said, “The parasite is almost gone. His labs look good.”

“He looks like hell.”

McCoy paused in his noting and looked at Jim. Pale and still, he no longer had an oxygen mask on and breathed easy, the desperate wheezing finally ceasing. The lungs were clear and he’d given Jim a pulmonary treatment that would strengthen his respirations. It was difficult to tell from looking at him, but he was better and on his way to recovery.

“Admiral.” Spock’s voice interrupted the room. He stood near the foot of the bed, his gaze dropping to Jim only briefly.

“Yes, Spock?”

“We may have located Lt. Weston.”

ef

Kirk didn’t remember coming to consciousness; he simply opened his eyes to a fuzzy and bright Sickbay.

Shit.

The last thing he remembered was being in the briefing room with Pike.

Pike? He pushed up on his elbows and cried out as a sharp pain tore into his chest. Falling back to the cushions, he gritted his teeth and cursed, feeling the hot flush of pain rise in his cheeks.

“Let that be a lesson for you.”

McCoy walked to the side of Kirk’s bed as he pressed his hand to his chest and tried to ease the pain. It didn’t help.

“What the hell did you do to me?” The words were rushed and pushed through his teeth.

“That’s the thanks I get for saving your life?” McCoy stood just at the head of the bed and made an adjustment on the IV regulator.

Seconds later, Kirk felt the rush of medication push through his veins. “That better have been a pain killer.”

Talking took too much air and he paused to catch his breath, glaring at McCoy.

“It was.” McCoy looked down at him. “Your chest will be sore for a day or two.”

“Wonderful.” He closed his eyes. The medication was beginning to work and the pain in his chest eased. After long minutes, he opened his eyes again. McCoy was still staring down at him with a clinical expression. “So … I didn’t make it out of the briefing room.”

“You made it out.” Humor shone in McCoy’s eyes.

Kirk groaned. “Don’t tell me.” Great way to impress an admiral.

“Don’t worry. You redeemed yourself.” McCoy inclined the bed and the new position helped him to breathe easier.

He frowned at McCoy.

“You don’t remember?”

He shook his head.

McCoy crossed his arms and went into detail about the fever and speaking Orion and codes, seemingly enjoying the recapping at great lengths, which told Kirk that no matter how badly he currently felt, he must be okay or McCoy wouldn’t be enjoying himself so much. When he was finished, he simply stared.

“That’s it?” Kirk asked.

It took McCoy a moment to react, the brows drawing together, the lips compressing. “You know you could say thank you.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. He was suddenly tired. “Where’s Pike now?”

“I have no idea, but they may have found Weston.”

At least he had done that right. He closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was McCoy.

“Why were you speaking Orion, Jim?”

ef

Kirk wasn’t in the transporter room when Weston materialized, but Spock stood motionless just outside the control panels to welcome the lieutenant aboard. Weston was notably thinner, dirty and shaking uncontrollably as he stood on the pad, his cheeks flushed with an obvious fever.

“Welcome aboard, Lt. Weston.”

Weston scanned the room, looking slightly bewildered before setting his gaze again on Spock. “Thank you, sir,” was all he managed to mutter before collapsing.

M’Benga was already moving forward and just barely made the first step to break Weston’s fall. Pike arrived in his mobile chair moments later as the medical staff transferred Weston onto a gurney.

“Is he all right?” Pike asked.

M’Benga had his scanner out and humming. “Malnourished, dehydrated, high fever …. Not life threatening now. We’ll have to start him on treatments.”

Pike waited by Spock’s side, out of the way, as M’Benga and his team rushed Weston out of the room. For a long moment the room was empty and silent, as if they were just absorbing the relief, like two marathon runner that had finally crossed the finish line.

“You can leave orbit now, Spock.”

“Sir?”

“Put up a buoy marker and I’ll make my recommendations to Starfleet Command.” He maneuvered his chair through the doors and into the corridor where Spock rushed to keep up.

“Is that wise, Admiral?”

Pike chuckled. “Maybe not, but we got our man back, we’ll leave the rest up to the diplomats and Ops.”

Spock kept pace with Pike. “You know who is supplying the natives with weapons.”

“We had an idea.” They stopped at the turbo lift. “Kirk confirmed it.”

Pike wheeled into the turbo lift and Spock had to be quick to get in before the doors shut. He stared at Pike, who sat relaxed and confident in his chair.

“Orions,” Spock said simply.

Pike shook his head. “Don’t ask me how he knew, but Weston’s communication confirmed it.”

“This has been a test.” Spock’s words were tight. His hand snaked out and hit the stop on the panel.

Pike looked calmly up at him. “Your Captain was a cadet six months ago. Everything the _Enterprise_ does is a test. He’s being evaluated on everything he does, every decision he makes.” He paused. “It’s for his own good.”

“He might have been killed.”

Pike grimaced. “That wasn’t in the plan. Neither was the battle. Our intel was wrong.”

For a long time they stared at one another without speaking. Then Pike released the turbo lift. They rode in silence until the doors opened and Pike wheeled out, leaving Spock alone. He watched the Admiral, suddenly reminded of the day in the assembly hall when Pike had graciously relinquished command of _Enterprise_ to Kirk. The young man had beamed with pride and Spock had thought how unprepared Kirk really was to command, but over the past months Kirk had expertly demonstrated his ability to command.

“Stop holding up the damn lift, Spock,” McCoy said, suddenly appearing.

Drawn out of his thoughts, he said, “I apologize, Doctor.” And stepped back into the lift to allow him entrance.

“Weston’s in Sickbay,” McCoy said, shaking his head. “Got stuck in the bio lab.” He looked at Spock, as if realizing for the first time that something was amiss. “Pike happy?”

Spock stared ahead. “The Admiral did not convey to me his emotional state.”

McCoy scowled. “You know what I mean?”

Spock met his gaze. For a moment he wanted to confide in McCoy, to share with him his frustrations and concerns, but he wasn’t certain how the doctor would receive him. He knew McCoy cared for Kirk and that the two shared a deep friendship that Spock had not been able to achieve with anyone but Uhura. “I believe he got what he came for.”

The doors snapped open and Spock walked out.

ef

“You’re lucky we found the cure,” McCoy said adjusting Weston’s IV flow.

“Thought maybe I’d used up my luck,” Weston said quietly. He lay pale and spent in the bed, weak from malnutrition and dehydration despite McCoy’s care over the past two days.

“No such thing,” Kirk said.

McCoy turned and frowned as Kirk, wearing a black t-shirt and loose pants, slowly approached. He was supposed to be in bed.

“Welcome back,” Kirk said with a smile. “Sorry I missed your grand entrance.”

Weston winced. “Not my finest hour.”

“Nor ours.” Kirk sobered, leaning against the bed. “Sorry it took us so long.”

“I was beginning to wonder, sir.”

Kirk chuckled. “Morse code. That was clever.”

“Something you did at the academy. I read your paper on the benefits of coding enemy transmissions.”

McCoy stared meaningfully at Kirk. “Don’t tire him, Captain,” he said as he moved away from the bed. He caught the image of Pike standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on the frame.

Pike was watching the exchange between Kirk and Weston.

“He’s a natural leader,” McCoy said easily, coming to a stop beside the Admiral.

“There’s more to being a captain than charisma.”

McCoy tilted his head and looked at Kirk. “He found the signal Weston was sending. Got him back.”

“He got lucky.”

McCoy looked at Pike, wondering what had spurred the comment. He shrugged slightly. “I’d rather be lucky than good.”

Pike turned to meet his gaze. The light-colored eyes, normally softened with affection and humor were uncommonly serious. “He doesn’t need any more luck.”

With that the Admiral turned and left, limping slightly. McCoy watched him until he disappeared then returned to watching Kirk, still having an easy conversation with Weston. What would it take to impress Pike, he wondered. Jim had saved the planet. Hell, he’d saved the whole damn Federation and had been awarded the Enterprise, but Pike had kept him on a short leash. Jim was itching to test his metal, and McCoy knew his friend wanted the new assignment that had been rumored to be in the works.

But maybe Pike was right in slowing Jim down. As brilliant as he was, he was young and inexperienced, overflowing with confidence that made him both effective and dangerous. Like most young men, Jim thought himself invincible.

Kirk concluded his visit with Weston and approached McCoy, who noted the weariness and slight limp to his gait. Despite that, he smiled as he approached McCoy.

“Another successful mission.”

McCoy opened his mouth. The words were right there at the tip of his tongue – dozens of words of what a damn fool Jim was, of how dumb luck seemed to follow him, and how some day he was going to run out of that luck. The blues eyes stared at him, clear, brilliant and alive with a love for life that McCoy had never fully understood. He shut his mouth and swallowed, nodding once.

“Congratulations.”

Kirk held his gaze a moment longer then looked away with a cocky, confident expression. “Think I’ll go to the bridge.”

A scowl snapped in place. “Think again. I haven’t cleared you for duty, yet.”

Kirk turned to him, magnetic, captivating and despite the pallor of illness, charming. He’d seen the look before a dozen different times.

“Don’t even try it, Jim. I’m immune to your bull shit.”

“Bones –”

“I’ll release you to your quarters, where you’ll rest. You’re far from recovered. You still have another treatment due and you’re about five kilos underweight.”

Kirk opened his mouth.

“And,” McCoy continued, jabbing an accusing finger at Kirk, “you still have a fever. I’m not going to have you traipsing around the ship and passing out f—”

“I’m not going to pass out,” Kirk said petulantly.

McCoy crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Your quarters or Sickbay.”

Kirk let out a frustrated breath that emerged from the back of his throat as a soft growl. With that he turned and walked out of sickbay, trying to hide his limp.

 

The End

 

 

* * *

 

Thank all of you for reading. This was my attempt to continually bridge the gap in the Kirk – Spock relationship. Now that Beyond is out, I’ll have plenty of fodder for new stories. I’m looking forward to building off Beyond and to creating new stories in the 5-year mission.

If you like my writing,  you may enjoy my new book “Hungry For Touch” which has a 5-star rating on Amazon and Goodreads. Not trek, but dramatic and real. It’s available on Amazon.

Peace and love - Laureen


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